by Dan Koboldt
“Good for you,” Kiara said.
“A large man with dark skin. A studious, quiet one. And a woman in charge.”
Uh-oh. This was starting to feel like another one of Holt’s little surprises. Quinn slid a hand into his sleeve and brushed his fingertips against the mechanism there. If push came to shove, he could surprise these soldiers. Maybe buy them a little bit of time to flee back down the mountain . . . no, not with the defenses they’d seen. These soldiers weren’t screwing around.
Damn.
“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying, Commander,” Kiara said.
He shrugged. “We get a warning like that, we pay attention.”
A few more soldiers had materialized around them, all of them holding hooked spears. Quinn recognized them, too, from his training. They were for pulling riders out of the saddle. Kiara had told him in no uncertain terms to stay quiet, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
“I killed a man today,” he said.
His words caught the commander by surprise. Kiara threw him a sharp look.
“It was my own failing,” Quinn said. He made his face a mask of pained regret. “Just as letting those Felarans escape was yours.”
“We’re not the ones who attacked you. Blame Felara,” the commander said. But the corner of his eye trembled, almost like a nervous tic.
Quinn pounced on him. “You drove them upon us!” He was using his stage voice now, and the words carried. Other men in the encampment turned toward them. Then the lyric just popped into his head. “So now we’ve come to you, with open arms. Nothing to hide.” He held out his arms, palms open, imploring him. “Believe what I say.”
The soldiers around them hunched a little at his words. Lowered their weapons just a fraction, too.
“Yes, well . . . I suppose that’s true,” the commander said. “But we still got the warning.”
Kiara had stopped glaring at Quinn, and now pursed her lips. There was blood in the water, and she was circling.
Yes, Quinn thought, trying to will her to action. Go for it.
“Let me guess,” Kiara said. “A graying fellow, traveling alone, with a backpack and a borrowed horse.”
The commander’s eye trembled again. Oh, what a delightful tell that was.
“I knew it,” said Kiara. “His name is Richard and he’s my biggest rival in Valteron.”
“He warned us that—” the commander began.
“Of course he warned you. The bastard would say anything to slow me down by a day, with the kind of cargo I’m carrying.”
“And what is that?” the commander asked. Still suspicious, but more circumspect about it.
“Mostly gems,” Kiara said. She nodded at Logan.
He reached into a bag—slowly, as a few of the guards tensed—and produced a leather satchel filled with polished stones. Rubies, emeralds, amethysts. From what Quinn had been told, they were worth a fortune in this world, even if they’d been synthetically created back in the company laboratory. Kiara beckoned Logan over, selected a ruby about the size of a robin’s egg. “Perhaps a contribution to your war effort would speed this along?”
The commander wavered a moment, but the way he stared at the gem said plenty. A mark was a mark. Quinn’s tense shoulders started to loosen.
“Your support is appreciated,” he said at last. He took the gem, held it up to the sunlight for a look. Then he tossed it to a soldier. “Strongbox.”
“With your permission, Commander,” Kiara said. She picked up her reins. “The sooner I’m off Felaran soil, the better.”
The perfect thing to say. If he could have, Quinn would have applauded her.
The commander allowed a tight smile. “Now there’s a sentiment I can agree with. Speak of what you’ve seen to no one, even in New Kestani. Felarans have spies everywhere.”
“You have my word, Commander. Not a whisper to anyone.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “My competitor. Did he happen to say where he was headed?”
“Can’t say I recall.”
Kiara flipped him another gem, this time an emerald. “How’s your memory now?”
“Getting better.” The commander scratched his head. “Still foggy, though.”
Quinn fought the grin that wanted to take over his face. This guy had some balls.
Or jewels, as it were.
She tossed him a sapphire about the size of Quinn’s thumb. Now there was a substantial bribe; that gem could probably fund the entire garrison for a month.
“South, I believe it was,” the commander said. He looked to one of his soldiers, who nodded in agreement. “Back to Valteron, just like you.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Kiara said. She made a sour face. “I do hope your memory clears up faster the next time.”
“I’m sure it will, my lady,” he said. He handed her a small square of parchment with a maroon wax seal at the bottom. “This will get you through to New Kestani.” He put two fingers to his forehead and gestured to Chaudri, then to Quinn. “Brother. Sister.”
Quinn gave him a solemn nod. It was all he could trust himself to do.
They rode slowly out of the battlements and began winding their way out of the canyon to the Kestani side of the pass.
“Really went on a limb out there, Bradley,” Logan said quietly.
“I had to say something. They were about to string us up.”
“Maybe avoid the Journey lyrics, next time.”
“I hope there isn’t a next time,” Quinn said.
Logan chuckled. “Don’t stop believing.”
At two narrow funnel points in the road they encountered squads of soldiers, but their wax-sealed parchment got them through without delay, and a thought occurred to Quinn: they might even be gaining on Holt. He felt a thrill, thinking about it.
I can’t wait to meet this guy.
Logan had to admit that they were making good time. Nevil’s Gap put them at the narrowest point of New Kestani, squeezed between the border mountains and an inlet bay shared with the city-state of Tion to the south. That was if Kiara’s maps were accurate. Holt might have tampered with the Alissian geographical data. Logan didn’t trust the maps, didn’t trust anything the man had touched before he left, and had voiced that numerous times.
The lieutenant was unfazed. “The survey teams went over them twice with their notes. They couldn’t find any significant changes.”
Logan shrugged. “Holt’s too smart to leave a trail.” And we usually don’t catch on to his little surprises until it’s too late.
They rode on.
The trail widened enough that he could drop back to ride beside the magician. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
Bradley shrugged. Didn’t say anything, where normally he’d have a joke or a smart-ass reply.
“You did well in the ambush,” Logan said. “Only forgot about half of what I taught you.”
“I’m glad I didn’t drop my sword,” Bradley said. “They just came out of nowhere and were on us.”
“Hate to tell you, but that’s usually how it goes,” Logan said. “Even back home. Middle Eastern fighters are all about guerilla warfare. Roadside bombs, sneak attacks, assassinations. You don’t get prep time or warnings. That’s why we train the way we do.”
Bradley looked down and away from him. “When I shot him, I—I didn’t even think about it.”
“That’s good,” Logan said.
“How is that good?”
“You relied on instinct, and you stayed alive. That’s all that matters.”
“I guess,” Bradley said.
Logan would have told him that it got easier, that he’d get over it. But that would be a lie, so he left Bradley to his haunting thoughts and rode up to check on Kiara’s progress with the radioisotope scanner. “Anything yet?”
“Not
hing,” she said.
“He must have some way to circumvent the isotope.” Logan wouldn’t put it past him. Holt had been two or three moves ahead since the day he’d left. Probably before that.
“At least we know where he’s headed.”
“I’m worried about that, though,” Logan said. “He’s too smart to let something slip by accident.”
“We catch up to him before he crosses the border, and it doesn’t really matter what he’s planned,” Kiara said.
Logan didn’t think it was that simple. Holt had never done anything half-ass. “Hope you’re right. I’m tired of dancing for him.” Just as I’m tired of this horse, of this world, and of being away from my girls.
“Then we should try to get ahead of him. What’s the fastest way south?”
“Probably by sea, this time of year. We might even beat him to Valteron.” If that’s where he was truly headed.
“For all we know, he’s done the same,” Kiara said.
“Might as well check the closest port city, then,” Logan said.
“Very well,” Kiara said. “You know the one I want, Logan. Take the lead.”
“Roger.” He nudged his mount into the lead and began whistling a sea chantey. Bradley rode up to take his place.
“What’s got him so excited?” he could hear Bradley ask.
“The thing that enlisted men live for, and every officer dreads most,” Kiara said. “Shore leave.”
He couldn’t help but grin.
“If we spent half as much on cultural research as we did security, we’d know the Alissian world as well as we do our own.”
—R. HOLT, “INVESTMENT IN ALISSIA”
CHAPTER 7
CAPTAINS
Seven days of hard riding put them in smelling distance of the ocean. The mountain peaks had steadily dropped behind them, fading at last into the indistinct clouds of a bruised-gray sky. According to Chaudri, ninety percent of Kestani lived within ten or twenty leagues of one of the borders, be it the mountains, the seacoast, or the capital city near the borders with Tion and Caralis.
Now they rode into a steady southern breeze that carried the hint of brine, and laid eyes on the largest Alissian settlement Quinn had seen yet.
“Bayport,” Chaudri said. “Population of about ten thousand, give or take a few depending on the trading fleet and naval presence.”
The port city and the bay beyond looked like an old painting of Hong Kong. Wooden buildings piled on one another amid a sea of thatch-roof houses, more than Quinn could count. Beyond them was an even more crowded harbor, first with rowboats and single-masted sailcraft, then larger junks and eventually the traders: deep-hulled ships with two or three masts.
Chaudri used a pair of compact binoculars to inspect the flags and sigils at their masts. “Kestani and Valteroni craft for the most part,” she said. “I see a few Caralissian traders, too. There’s a Pirean ship—they’re a long way from home. If Holt came here, he could catch a ride anywhere.”
“He could still be down there, waiting to catch a ride,” Logan said.
Kiara checked the radioisotope scanner. The look on her face was frustration, as best Quinn could gauge. He was still trying to work out her tells.
“I don’t like going into a crowded city, but it’s probably worth a look,” she said.
“I know a stable where we can stash the horses,” Logan said.
“Good,” she said. “We’ll need to find the port master, and then we make a round of the captain’s taverns along the waterfront. If Holt passed through, someone might remember him.”
They reached the city limits in late afternoon, when the setting sun made black skeletons of the masts in the harbor.
“Watch your purses and saddlebags,” Logan said. “It tends to get a bit crowded in here.”
The city had no wall, which meant no gate—apparently the Kestani felt comfortable with few land defenses here because of the ships. A steady flow of travelers entered the city from several directions at once, most of them on foot. The occasional wagon or horse cart rumbled past, loaded with tubers or livestock or materials Quinn didn’t even recognize.
Most of the people were Kestani; he could tell by a quick glance because of the colorful garb. There was no wrong answer when it came to colors or styles for Kestani dress. Neon green and bright orange? No problem. Bright blue and rich purple? Go ahead. Somehow the Kestani made it all work. He felt drably attired by comparison, a plain raven in a flock of tropical birds.
Eventually they were forced to walk the horses, as Alissians pressed around them in the narrow streets of the port city. Quinn looked out across the people and the cottages and marveled at how many of them there were. He had been in big cities—hell, Vegas could have ten times this number on the Strip alone—but it wasn’t the same. Bayport was a city bursting at the seams. The layout of the city, the garb, the chatter of those passing by, emphasized how much this world differed from his own. They passed the open door of a squat stone building where a wave of heat washed out, along with the steady ring of hammer on metal. A blacksmith. Quinn shook his head. Unbelievable.
Chaudri was getting into her element. She strolled casually along, chatting with Alissians as they passed, asking questions, even bargaining with a street vendor for some mystery-meat concoction served hot off a heated iron brazier. Were she not following Quinn’s horse, the woman would probably have lost herself in the crowd and not even cared.
Logan finally turned them away from one of the main avenues and down a side street to a high stockade fence. He banged on it with an armored fist until a boy unlatched the door to let them in. The fence encircled what seemed to be a sort of horse parking lot. It had a couple of guards, several hitching posts, and a smell that Quinn could only describe as authentic. Bits of hay and manure were scattered about the entrance to a small stable crowded with pack animals, cart horses, and a few riding mounts.
“Nice little parking lot,” Quinn said.
“You’re looking at one of the most profitable businesses in port cities,” Chaudri said.
“Horse and buggy storage,” Quinn said. He was dubious.
“They charge to store the horses, and then they rent them out during the day,” Chaudri said. “Not ours, of course.”
“We pay extra, I’m guessing,” Quinn said.
“They sell the manure, too. Makes for decent fertilizer.”
Quinn tried to keep his breathing shallow. “I’d hate to live downwind.”
Chaudri gave a shrug. “Smells like money to me.” Logan had finished hobbling the horses, then lashing the swords and bows up in canvas. Probably a good idea to keep those away from prying eyes. He came over to Quinn and Chaudri, and tucked a carbon dagger into each of their boots. “This is a port city. Keep your wits about you,” he said.
Quinn feigned surprise. “So Bayport’s a port city? Get outta here.”
Logan glared as Quinn hurried past.
On the way out, Kiara pressed a couple of coins into the boy’s hand for an extra careful watch over their mounts and saddlebags. They regrouped outside the gate, which the boy closed and barred behind them.
Kiara pulled up a rough map of the city. “The port master’s office is on the north end of the harbor. Most of the captain’s bars will be on the south.”
“Have to split up to cover them all,” Logan said.
“Chaudri and I will try the port master,” Kiara said.
Quinn rubbed his hands together. “I guess Logan and I are hitting the bars, then.”
“For information only,” Kiara said.
Quinn didn’t try to hide the disappointment from his face. He realized he could really use a drink.
“Ah, perhaps they could be permitted a bit of indulgence, Lieutenant,” Chaudri said. “In the name of field research.”
She sighed. “Very well. But keep it in moderation.”
They arranged to meet that evening at an inn called the Lost Lady. Comm units were checked, but Kiara wanted radio silence unless there was an emergency. She and Chaudri set out to track down the port master, whose offices were at the south end of the city. Logan and Quinn made right for the waterfront.
“Captains love to talk, but they’ll want something in return,” Logan said.
“I could give a little performance,” Quinn said.
Logan shook his head. “That will draw attention. We’ll just spread some coin around, buy a few drinks.”
“So once again I’m absolutely useless here.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say all along.”
“As long as we’re on the same page.”
Logan almost smiled at that as he dug out a brown leather purse and handed it over. Quinn shook out a handful of heavy round coins into his hand. Some gold, some silver. They had the heft of value to them, like premium poker chips. “Good. I could use a drink.”
“You’re buying, not drinking.”
“Trust me, I know how to work a crowd.”
“This isn’t Vegas.”
Quinn stepped right into a fresh pile of horse manure. He grimaced. “I’m well aware of that.”
The streets grew crowded as they neared the waterfront, and carried the potent smells of brine and urine. The people, too, were more downtrodden and ramshackle. Funny that he’d started thinking of them that way. They just looked human. Even the outfits didn’t seem odd any longer. Fewer of the Kestani bright colors were visible here; loose shirts of what appeared to be sail canvas were far more common. Nearly everyone walked with the rolling swagger of lifetime sailors.
“Most of them are on shore leave,” Logan said, as if hearing his thoughts. “A day or two of drinking, gambling, and other vices until their pay is gone. The captains will be holed up in one of these drinking parlors.”
“How will I know what a ship captain looks like?” Quinn asked.
“Oh, you’ll know.”
The first drinking parlor was a dive for certain. It was a squarish room, poorly lit by round lamps that flickered and gave off oily smoke. A haze hung over the bar, a wooden monstrosity carved to resemble the hull of a ship. A handful of men lounged in high-backed chairs beside it. They were cleaner and more expensively attired than anyone Quinn had seen so far. There were other patrons in the room, some drinking at low tables, others playing cards, but these men were the centerpiece.
