That was why the Edgers finally banded together and instituted their own court and their own militia. Now to rekindle a feud, one had to show cause. The Sheeriles knew this. The problem was she didn't think they cared.
"They have all that money, and they managed to keep it through the years," Mikita said.
Erian frowned. "What does money have to do with anything?"
"People who keep their money that long aren't stupid. They won't take risks unless they think things will play out in their favor. Sniping Uncle Gustave and Aunt Gen without cause is a hell of a risk. They know our whole family will be howling for blood."
Cerise hid a sigh. Unlike the Sheeriles, the Mars were swamp-poor: they had land and numbers, but no money. That was how they'd earned their nickname: Rats. Numerous, poor, and vicious. The vicious part she didn't mind, the poor part she could do nothing about, and the numerous part . . . Well, it was true. In a fight, the Sheeriles would lose hired guns, while she would lose relatives.
The thought made Cerise wince. Her father's absence turned her into the head of the family. She was the oldest of his children, and she was the only fully trained warrior they had. If something did happen to her parents, she would be the one sending her family to die. Cerise caught her breath and let it out slowly, trying to release anxiety with it. This morning had gone from bad to worse in a hurry.
The path turned, and the decrepit husk of the Sene Manor came into view. Cerise's heart skipped a beat. A lanky man stood on the porch, leaning against the porch post, his straw blond hair falling over his shoulders. He glanced up, his eyes light on a tan face, and a slow, lazy smile stretched his lips.
Lagar Sheerile. The oldest of the Sheerile brothers. They and their mother ran the Sheerile clan now, since their dad fell off a tree three years ago. Sheerile Senior had busted his head so hard, he couldn't even feed himself anymore, let alone think. Served him right, too.
Behind her Erian swore softly.
Beside Lagar, Peva, his brother, rocked in a half-rotten wooden chair, whittling something from a block of wood. Above the two of them, the windows of the abandoned mansion stood wide open despite the rain. Men waited at the windows. She counted two crossbows, three rifles, and a shotgun. The Sheeriles had expected them and brought hired muscle. Paid top coin, too - the shooters with the Broken's rifles were expensive as hell.
All together, the Sheerile brothers, the dilapidated house, and the rifles in the windows made a perfect snapshot of the Mire. Like some sort of twisted postcard. She just wished she could shove it into the faces of the bluebloods from Louisiana. You want to know what life is like in the Edge? Here you go. Think on that before you decide to pile more problems on us.
Peva slid from his chair, a tall gangly form on legs that looked too long. His crossbow lay next to him on a rail. He was so proud of the damn thing, he'd named it. Wasp. Like it was Excalibur or something. Peva reached for it but changed his mind. Decided not to bother, did he? Apparently, they weren't enough of a threat.
Cerise stared at Lagar. Where are my parents, you smug sonovabitch?
The door banged, and the third Sheerile brother sauntered into view, carrying Lagar's sword. Arig, at eighteen, was the youngest and the dumbest. In a dark room in a crowd full of strangers, Cerise could've picked all three of them out in seconds. She had grown up knowing that one day she would have to kill the Sheerile brothers, and they knew they had to kill her before she did them in. She'd come to terms with it a long time ago.
Arig held the sword out to Lagar, but the blond Sheerile ignored it. They didn't mean to fight her today. Not yet.
Cerise brought her horse to a halt by the porch.
Lagar gave her a short nod. "Lovely morning to you."
"Same to you, Lagar." She smiled, making an effort to look sweet and cheerful. "You boys lost?"
"Not that I know of." Lagar gave her the same friendly smile.
"If you're not lost, then what are you doing on my land?"
Lagar peeled himself from the post with affected leisure. "My land, love."
"Since when?"
"Since your father sold it to me this morning."
Like hell he did. She pursed her lips. "You don't say."
"Arig," Lagar called. "Bring the deed to our pretty guest."
The youngest Sheerile brother trotted over to her horse and offered her a piece of paper rolled into a tube. She took the tube from him.
Arig leered. "Where's your cute little sister, Cerise? Maybe Lark would like some of what I've got. I can show her a better time than she's had."
A shocked silence fell.
Some things were just not done.
A lethal fire slipped into Lagar's eyes. Peva stepped off the porch, walked over to Arig, and grabbed him by the ear. Arig howled.
"Excuse us a minute." Peva spun Arig around and kicked him in the ass.
"What did I do?"
Peva kicked him again. Arig scrambled through the mud, up the rickety porch, and into the house. Something thumped inside, and Arig's voice screamed, "Not in the gut!"
Cerise glanced at Lagar. "Letting him go around without a muzzle again?"
Lagar grimaced. "Look at the damn deed."
Cerise unrolled the paper. The signature was perfect: her father's sharp narrow scrawl. Lagar must've paid a fortune for it. "This deed's false."
Lagar smiled. "So you say."
She handed it back to him. "Where are my parents, Lagar?"
He spread his lean arms. "I don't know. I haven't seen them since this morning. They sold us the manor and left in perfect health."
"Then you don't mind if we check the house."
He bared his teeth at her. "As a matter of fact, I do. Mind."
The crossbows and rifles clicked as one, as safety latches dropped.
Cerise fought for control. It flashed in her head: jump off the mare, use her as a shield against the first volley, charge the porch, split Arig's stomach with a swipe of the blade, thrust into Peva . . . But by then both Mikita and Erian would be dead. Six crossbows against three riders - it was no contest.
Lagar was looking at her with an odd wistful expression. She had seen it once before, two years ago, when he got drunk out of his mind at the Summer Festival. He'd crossed the field and asked her to dance, and she spun one time around the bonfire with him, shocking the entire Mire into silence: two heirs of feuding families playing with death while their elders watched.
She had an absurd suspicion that he was thinking of pulling her off her horse. He was more than welcome to try.
"Lagar," she whispered. "Don't screw with me. Where are my parents?"