Dies the Fire by S. M. Stirling Page A

him, awe in the tone.
    There was enough light to recognize faces; a stocky middle-aged woman with flyaway black hair, and a big burly black male.
    Enough light to recognize faces even with the distortion of the cargo hooks planted under their jaws; it was the mayor and the chief of police—Cat and the Moose, as they were known on the street.
    Emiliano swallowed, and Dolores clutched at his arm; he shook her off impatiently, but still licked his lips. He’d killed more than once, and gotten away with it—his time inside had been for other things—but this left him feeling a little scared, like the ground was shifting under his feet. That was nothing new since the Change, but he could sense the same fears running through his men, sapping their courage, making them feel small.
    And nobody makes the Lords feel small! Aloud, he went on: “Hey, they got a real jones on for people who let their books get overdue here, chicos!”
    The tension broke in laughter; even some of the guards smiled, briefly.
    â€œAnd maybe now we know why nobody’s heard much from that Provisional Government last couple of days.”
    The bodies hadn’t begun to smell much; Portland was fairly cool in March, and anyway the stink from the fires burning out of control across most of the city hid a lot. The raw sewage pouring into the river didn’t help, either.
    So, I’m impressed, Emiliano thought. But these hijos need us, or we wouldn’t have been invited.
    The guards at the entrance carried long ax-spike-hook things like some he’d seen on TV occasionally. All of the guards had long blades at their waists, machetes or actual swords. He blinked consideringly at those, as well. His first impulse was to laugh, but his own boys were carrying fire axes and baseball bats themselves, and possibly . . .
    Yeah, I see the point, he thought. The points and the edges!
    â€œYou’re the jefe of the Lords, right?” one of the guards asked.
    â€œ Si, ” Emiliano said.
    With two dozen armed men at his back, the gang chief could afford to be confident. But not too confident. The cooking smells from inside made his stomach rumble, even with the whiff from the corpses. They’d been eating, but not well, particularly just lately. Everything in the coolers and fridges had gone bad, and he hadn’t had fresh meat since last Friday.
    â€œPass on up, then. You and three others. The staff will bring food out to the rest of your men there.”
    He pointed his ax-thing . . . halberd, that’s the word . . . towards trestle tables set out along the sidewalks. Emiliano made a brusque gesture over his shoulder, and the rest of his bangers went that way apart from Dolores and his three closest advisors; he figured that with the Cat and Moose swinging above them on hooks, nobody was going to get too macho.
    He sauntered up the stairs; the light got brighter, big lanterns hanging from the entranceway arches, making up for the dead electric lights inside.
    Where did I see that guy before? he thought, running the gate guard’s face through his memory. Yeah, he’s a Russian. One of Alexi’s guys.
    A blond chick met them inside the door; she was wearing bikini briefs under a long silk T-shirt effect and a dog collar, and carrying a clipboard.
    Hey, not bad, he thought, then remembered Dolores was there. Then: Wait a minute. She’s not a puta . That stuff’s for real.
    The greeter spoke, fright trembling under artificial cheerfulness; he recognized fear easily enough, and also the thin red lines across her back where the gauzy fabric stuck: “Lord Emiliano?”
    It took him a moment to realize she was giving him a title rather than referring to the name of his gang; for a moment more he thought he was being dissed.
    Then he began to smile.
    â€œYeah,” he replied, with a grand gesture. “Lead on.”
    He hadn’t seen a room so brightly lighted after dark since the Change; and