The merriment begins to die away as we dismount from our trikes and step onto the sand in front of the rock. I stay beside Atrax, while the others stay a step or two behind. My roach-leather boots, polished to a shine, immediately begin to collect dust.

  Slaughterborne is still wiping his eyes. He's a big man, though not so large as the war-priest they called Butcher, and he cuts an impressive figure. He wears a long leather duster, flaring into a hair-lined collar; since the only hair available is human, I have a hunch about the origin of the rest of garb. Certainly the yellowed bones sewn in decorative patterns across his shoulders have a suspiciously familiar look.

  The one-eyed woman who had been escorting us hops off her bike and swarms up the rock to Slaughterborne's side. She mutters something into his ear, and his eyes narrow as he looks down at us.

  "Atrax Clanlord," he says. "I commend your courage, at least."

  Raucous laughter and revving engines from the raiders gathered all around. Cold sweat continues to pool at the small of my back. They haven't killed us yet, but that means it's all down to my plan; better odds, but more responsibility if things go wrong. If the weight of it bothers Atrax, though, he doesn't show it.

  "I greet you, Slaughterborne," he says.

  Beside the raider chief, another man lurches forward. Like Butcher, he has a weapon fused to one arm in place of a hand, in this case a harpoon with a cruel barbed spike. Blood drips down his cheeks from the Fifth icon carved into his forehead. Another war-priest. Not happy to see him.

  "You will address the master as Fifth-on-Earth!" he screeches. "His name is not for the likes of you."

  "Now, now," Slaughterborne says. "Atrax commands a mighty host of his own. Perhaps he's finally seen the Fifth's glory and has come to bend the knee?"

  Showtime. I clear my throat and shout, "He has come because I asked him to!"

  I use my best upper-class accent, a kind of verbal sneer that dismisses the horde of cannibals and their elaborate weaponry as quaint provincial affectations. The Sworn all around us shout abuse until Slaughterborne cuts them off with a gesture.

  "And who the fuck," he pronounces slowly, "are you?"

  "My name is Lachrimon Silokete," I say, borrowing the surname of a powerful court family; unlikely anyone here has heard of them, but a convincing persona is all in the details. "I have the honor to serve the -in-the-City" -- emphasis to contrast with Slaughterborne's own self-appointed title -- "in his Outer Court as Emissary-At-Large to the Sinister Waste."

  "Dextral unbeliever," the war-priest snarls. "I say bleed him for the pot."

  Cheers of agreement. Slaughterborne frowns.

  "Peace, Hunter," he growls, then raises his voice again. "And what brings an emissary of the Princeps so far from home? You must be uncomfortable in this country."

  "No country is beyond the reach of Earth-as-in-Heaven!" I shout back. "And it has come to the attention of the esteemed Prefect of the Outer Court that the tithe from this region has been sadly lacking of late. He has ordered that this be corrected."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Let your Princeps come and take it, if he can," the war-priest shouts, spraying spittle.

  "He will, if needs must," I say, with apparent unconcern. "But it is the preference of the esteemed Prefect to appoint a local viceroy where possible. Only the strongest and most capable will do, naturally."

  gets the boss's attention. I'd gambled that while the waste is full of brutes, no one could build an operation the size of Slaughterborne's without a glimmer of intelligence. He's surely heard stories of past City viceroys, appointed to supply the tithe and given everything the City's backing can provide: food, wealth, weapons. A license, in other words, to expand his band of raiders into a private empire.

  "And so you have come to me!" he shouts, raising an arm triumphantly.

  " have come to you," Atrax says, "with a proposal."

  The smile fades from the cannibal leader's face.

  "I had originally intended to make Atrax the viceroy," I say carelessly. "He seemed the most likely candidate."

  "?" Hunter roars. "He is an unbelieving weakling!"

  I shrug. "And yet his clan has both strength and stability."

  "Fifth-on-Earth could crush them easily!" the war-priest rages. "They exist only on his sufferance."

  "We were here when the Sworn were weak and scattered," Atrax says. "And we will be here when Slaughterborne is gone. That is true strength."

  "I -- that is, the City -- was inclined to agree." Before Hunter can shout something back, I raise a finger. "But. The recent ambush and capture of Atrax's younger sister made me doubt his ability to protect his people."

  "Doubt?" Atrax feigns genuine anger, just as coached. "We rescued her and took Butcher's cleaver for a trophy!"

  "But Butcher was Slaughterborne's subject," I shoot back. "The insult remains."

  "Bah." Atrax spits in the dust. " is why I am here. I challenge you, Slaughterborne, for the honor of my clan."

  "And I will observe," I say, folding my arms. "And see who deserves the friendship of Earth-as-in-Heaven."

  ***

  The alternating cheers and catcalls from the crowd of cannibals, always loud, rise toward pandemonium. Hunter is shouting something, but the words are lost in the yelling and roaring engines. Slaughterborne's jaw is set, brow furrowed, while the one-eyed woman whispers urgently in his ear.

  The secret of all good con games is that the mark is your greatest accomplice. They believe, in the end, because they to believe. All the variations and subtle tricks ultimately boil down to this: you present the mark with a vision that, if it were true, would make them happy. Because they want to be happy, they

  Slaughterborne wants this to be real. A challenge from Atrax is all downside for him, nothing to gain and everything to lose. But here I am offering a carrot, and a mighty tasty one at that. Now he has to decide if it's worth the risk. No wonder he's thinking so hard.

  Notice what he's thinking about? Whether or not he should believe that I am who I say I am. It's another nice trick -- give the mark a dilemma to ponder, but make sure both sides of the dilemma involve Don't give them time to consider your presence at all.

  For one thing, if I was really who I claim to be, I ought to have at least a battleship backing me up.

  Slaughterborne spits a few words at the one-eyed woman, then roughly cuffs the still-ranting war-priest to get him to shut up. He raises his hands and silence gradually falls over the camp once again.

  "As the challenged, the terms are mine to set," he says, and my heart sings. I knew he would take the bait. Nobody gets to his position without being willing to risk it all to gain even more. "A run to Redtop and back. Trikes. A driver and a second."

  "Done," Atrax says.

  "I wasn't finished." Slaughterborne's eyes settle on me. "The Princeps wishes a worthy ally. Well, so do I. I would see what kind of mettle these Dextrals possess." His lip curls in a smile. "This City man will be your second."

  Atrax glances at me, and I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. This wasn't part of the plan. But when you're in this deep, there's nothing to do but double down.

  "A reasonable request," I say, in my loftiest high-court drawl. "I accept."

  Besides, I've seen duels before. Being second doesn't seem that hard. You just wait around and pick up the pieces once the fight is over, right?