by Dan Koboldt
Mostly because of the hats they wore. These were made of crushed velvet or a similar material, broad-rimmed, and studded with tropical feathers.
“Oh my God, it’s the cast of Don Quixote,” Quinn whispered.
Logan laughed. “Told you,” he said. “Now, put your people skills to work and find out if anyone’s seen Holt.”
Quinn strolled up to the end of the bar, digging a few silver coins from his purse as he did. The man on the end had a dark mustache and goatee; his red cap had a shockingly bright purple feather. Like the other captains, he appeared to have been drinking and smoking for most of the day. Quinn held out a silver coin in the palm of his hand.
“Buy you a drink, Captain?”
The captain looked Quinn up and down, hardly glancing at the coin. “That won’t buy what I’m drinking.”
Quinn had figured as much. “Ah, sorry. Of course.” He snapped his fingers, then spread them wide; now there were two coins in the hand. “Perhaps this is better. No, on second thought—” Another snap, another coin appeared. He could do this all day.
“Now you have my attention,” the captain said. “Landorian ale.” He gestured at a small, ornate cask on a shelf behind the bar. “Probably cheaper to melt silver down and drink it, but I just can’t help myself.”
“Let’s make it two, then,” Quinn said. He got the barkeeper’s attention and ordered two of the ales.
“You’re not a seaman, I can see that,” the captain said. “Not Kestani, either. I’d wager my beard on it.”
The barkeeper set two ales in front of them in heavy, cloudy glass mugs. Then he made Quinn’s coins vanish as quickly as any magician could.
“I’m a traveling performer,” Quinn said, which was essentially true. He dipped a finger in the foam of his glass and traced it around the rim. “A trick here.” He tilted the glass to a precarious angle so that the ale threatened to spill over the rim. Then he pulled his hands away, and the glass held fast. “A trick there.”
The captain raised an eyebrow over his ale. “Not bad. Then again, I’ve seen the real thing.”
He had to stop himself from a sharp intake of breath. “You’ve met a magician.”
“A couple of them, as it were.”
At last, a hint of the real reason he’d come. The true promise of Alissia. “Maybe I know them.”
“Nah, this was years ago.”
Damn. Quinn took his glass and had a sip. Carefully. He sniffed appreciatively and raised his glass. “You’ve good taste, Captain.”
“I’ve made it my business to try every ale the city-states have to offer. The farther away they’re from, the better they taste. Without exception.”
“Not a bad way to get along,” Quinn said. “Is yours a trading vessel, then?”
“Aye. Three-masted Kestani sloop.”
“Mmm,” Quinn said, stroking his chin appreciatively, though he had no idea what the man was talking about. “Sounds like a fine rig. You ever take passengers?”
“On occasion, if the price is right. They take up room I’d otherwise use for cargo. Doesn’t come cheap.”
“A friend of mine was looking for a ride down to Valteron. I wondered if he’d found a berth. Older fellow, goes by Richard?”
“Not with me, though I can’t speak for the other captains. Did you say Valteron?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure your friend wants to go there right now.”
“Why not?”
The captain drained his ale with a flourish. “That was a fine drink.”
“Have another. This time, you’re buying,” Quinn said. He reached into the captain’s hat and found three more silver coins somewhere in the vicinity of the outrageous purple feather.
“You’re a sly one,” said the captain. “Very well. Another ale.”
The barkeep was already pouring it from the cask on the shelf. He slid it over, took the coins, and was gone again. A perfect performance, as far as Quinn was concerned. Everything about the captain’s bar was that way. He really should look into the whole captaining thing.
The captain took a sip of his new ale, licked his lips. He leaned close. “Truth be told, I was supposed to head to Valteron with this cargo. Now I’m looking for a different port to take it to instead. At a loss.”
“Are things that bad?” Quinn asked. He took another sip of the ale, and had to remind himself to slow down.
“Hard to know what’s going, now that the Prime is dead.”
Quinn nearly choked on his ale. That sure as hell wasn’t covered in my mission briefings. “I’m sorry, did you say—”
“Dead.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Quinn said. He wished Chaudri were here, to weigh in on the implications. “I didn’t think he was terribly old.” In fairness, he didn’t know a thing about the Prime, except that he ruled Valteron.
“It was unexpected, that’s for damn sure. I’m told things are dicey down there.”
“I’ll bet, with the Prime dead,” Quinn said. He had to tell the others as soon as possible. “I should find my friend, I suppose. Good luck to you, Captain.”
The man lifted his glass in salute. “Thanks for the drink.”
Quinn turned, saw that Logan was waiting for him by the door. He gave him a nod, like Let’s go outside.
They stepped out of the captain’s room. Quinn briefed him on what he’d heard.
“Damn,” Logan said. “That explains why none of the captains I spoke to were heading south. None of them said why, though.” He gave Quinn a hard look. “How did you get that out of him?”
“Just my natural charms.”
“Right.”
“I’m a people person.”
“You’re something, all right,” Logan said.
“Do you think Holt changed his plans?”
“Hard to say,” Logan said. “A city-state without a leader isn’t the safest of places to hide out.”
“The chaos might help him, though,” Quinn said.
“So he’ll either have made a different plan, or be harder to find.”
The sun had dipped below the horizon; twilight cast a pall gray on the buildings along the bay. It was dim enough that Quinn didn’t initially recognize the men loitering in the alley beside the captain’s room. Then he saw the nearest man’s face.
It had the same sour expression as when he’d chosen the hand to destroy the world, back in that common room in Felara.
“There will always be detractors. If you don’t have them, you don’t matter enough.”
—ART OF ILLUSION, APRIL 1
CHAPTER 8
STREET MAGIC
“Shit, it’s them!” Quinn hissed . . . but too late.
Two of the men jumped Logan. Or tried to. The nearest got a slash on his forearm for his trouble—Logan’s knife seemed to come out of nowhere. They backed off a moment and moved to attack from two sides. Meanwhile Sour Face drew a dagger and came at Quinn. He held it in a fist, blade-down. That was bad news.
If Logan had taught him one thing and hammered it home, it was that Quinn was a dead man in a fair fight. So let’s forget “fair.”
Bravado seemed a better option here.
“Didn’t you learn your lesson?” Quinn sneered. “Magicians are not to be trifled with.”
“No tricks this time, boy!” he hissed.
Quinn circled him, keeping out of reach. Maintaining eye contact and a mask of contempt. “You obviously don’t know me. Because anyone who does wouldn’t question it.”
The man hesitated. “You’re no magician.” He came again.
Quinn backed away, trying to keep the panic from his voice. All of his great magic trinkets, and none where he could get to them! This fellow was going to take convincing, so he pushed the act even farther.
“Do not presume to know the ways of magicians!” he spat. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” He raised his free hand and waggled his fingers together in intricate motions and started mumbling utter nonsense under his breath. Just total bullshit. But if the man thought he was working a spell, it might keep him cautious.
Meanwhile Logan threw one of his attackers into the wall. But the other one pounced at him. No help from him, then—in the dim light and close quarters, they were keeping him at bay.
All Quinn had was his stage presence. Maybe he could back that with the elemental projector strapped to his wrist. It had slipped up too far, though, and he couldn’t get a grip on it. The edge was slick metal and the nylon band tight against his arm. And time was definitely a factor. The man pressed his attack—Quinn backed up until his back hit the rough stone of the building. Sour Face is clearly not a believer. He slapped his arm against the wall enough that the control button slid into his searching fingers. Finally.
Let’s give him a reason to believe.
He sighed, and stood up straight. “You leave me no choice.”
He held out his hand, palm-up. A ball of white-orange flame appeared above it. The heat from it was uncomfortable, but he kept his face still. Just a reluctant magician forced to reveal his craft.
The mercenary had been about to lunge. Now he backpedaled, his eyes wide. The two others attacking Logan were suddenly aware of the grapefruit-sized ball of fire in the palm of Quinn’s hand. They hesitated, too. Logan took that opportunity to slash at the other fellow, the one who wasn’t yet bleeding. He cursed; they backed up to where they could keep an eye on both Quinn and Logan.
“I’ll give you to the count of five,” Quinn said, using his stage voice and a confidence he didn’t feel. If they attacked, the fireball wasn’t going to help much. He had to sell it. “This is no ordinary fire. It burns a man from the inside out. Starting with the crotch.” He lowered the hand with the fireball, praying that the projector’s charge didn’t run out.
The men looked at one another as if indecisive.
“One!” Quinn said. He moved his arm back in a slow, windup. The fire hissed through the air, crackling. “Two!”
The men broke off and fled down the alley, with Sour Face giving Logan a wide berth. Once they rounded the corner, Quinn let the flame dissipate. He’d probably drained half of the juice in the elemental projector, so he needed to save what he could. The engineers had been working on a refill pack, but when the mission got moved up, they couldn’t finish in time.
“Nicely done,” Logan said. He moved catlike to the corner of the building and glanced around it. “Looks all clear.”
“Those were the same mercenaries as before,” Quinn said. “God, I’m glad that worked.”
“Yeah, you’re getting a little bit smarter. Remembering some of the stuff I taught you.”
“Not like I had a choice. You’re not much of a bodyguard.”
“I had my hands full, and you managed to be clever. Take the win.” Logan unmuted his comm unit to report to Kiara what had happened. She and Chaudri had just found the port master but the conversation was a bust. He either knew nothing of Holt or had been too well paid to say otherwise.
“Everyone stays in crowded areas until further notice,” she said. “Keep working the captains’ bars. Follow up on the Valteron rumors; if it’s true about the Prime, we’ll have to reconsider the plan. And find me someone who’s talked to Holt.” Logan agreed and shut the comm unit off before they joined the crowd on the avenue that ran along the shoreline.
“Great to hear her concern at our almost-demise,” Quinn said as they walked.
“That was her being concerned,” Logan said.
Between the raucousness, the stink, and the general press of people, it reminded Quinn of Bourbon Street. At Logan’s suggestion they stuck together in each captain’s room now, throwing around silver, buying drinks whenever they could. Word had gotten around about the troubles in Valteron, and it turned out few of the captains were planning to head south. Surely one of them was willing to gamble for profit despite the risk. But so far, Logan and Quinn had been coming up empty.
The last drinking room stood a bit off to the others; the architecture and red-and-white stone made it even more unique. And whereas the doors of the other places were open and inviting, this building had a door of steel-belted hardwood, and it was closed.
“Are you sure this is a captain’s bar?” Quinn asked.
“Not just any. The Valteroni one,” Logan said.
“Wow. Fancy.”
“Valteron builds one in every port their ships serve, for use by ships’ captains and naval officers. We’ll be lucky to get in. Noncitizens are up to the doorman.”
Logan took off his glove and knocked five times. It was the most polite thing Quinn had ever seen him do—almost dainty. The man looked nervous. Now that was frightening.
The door opened about a foot, wide enough for a distinguished man with graying hair, dressed entirely in black, to look upon them with a disdainful expression.
“Evening,” Logan said cheerfully. “I thought we’d come in and buy the good captains a drink or two.”
The doorman seemed unconvinced. “This is a Valteroni bar.”
“Where else to find the finest captains in Bayport?”
The doorman raised an eyebrow. “Do you have the coins? We only serve Valteroni liquor. Four silvers a glass.”
“We have the coins,” Logan assured him.
“You don’t look like it.”
This bar was their last shot for getting a line on Holt. Quinn could just picture the frown Kiara would give them if they failed to get in. He’d spent plenty of time around doormen and bouncers. It wasn’t enough to have money here. They had to be interesting. He just hoped the coins had enough iron in them.
“Looks can be deceiving,” he said. He brought his hands together, pulled them apart, and a silver coin appeared in his palm. He turned his hand over, and the coin danced across his fingers. Another joined it, then another. He made a fist. Here came the moment of truth, when he’d either seal the deal or fumble everything.
“Money has a way of . . . growing, when we’re around.” He let the coins fall from it one at a time. Each one held fast to the coin above it, till they dangled edge-to-edge from his fingertips. Oh, yes.
With his other hand he flicked the bottom-most coin so that it spun around and around. He smiled. Logan matched it. They looked up at the doorman. The spinning coin fell off then, but hopefully the effect was enough.
The man’s face never changed. Damn. Maybe he should have gone for a flashier trick. He kept forgetting that a magic trick that charmed in Vegas might not make anyone blink here. They had the real thing.
Finally, though, the doorman said, “Welcome to the House of Valteron.” He unlatched a hidden chain that had secured the door. Warm air and the potent smell of alcohol washed over them.
Oh, yeah. Still got it.
Where the other captains’ bars were nicer than Quinn might have expected, the House of Valteron took opulence to a whole new level. Oil lamps in reflective sconces lined every wall, but most of the light was cast by an impressive chandelier that hung from the ceiling of the chamber. Sumptuous furnishings were scattered tastefully throughout the room. To Quinn, it resembled the lobby of a Victorian-style hotel.
“Your weapons, please,” the doorman said.
“I’m sorry?” Logan said.
“You have a knife on your belt and another one in your boot. They stay with me, or you go right back out.” He stood with his hand in an alcove beside the door. Probably had a loaded crossbow back there, or something worse. For all his dapper appearance, the doorman seemed oddly capable of violence. Perhaps only to preserve the sanctity of House of Valteron, but that was what they were threatening, so he was threatening
back.
Quinn unsheathed both of his knives and handed them over; they were more dangerous to him than to anyone else. Logan grumbled but did the same. The doorman disappeared into a small room. He returned and handed each of them a carved wooden marker.
“Don’t lose it,” he said. Then he went back to take his position by the door.
Three women in exquisite gowns lounged on two of the couches, speaking quietly among themselves and giggling occasionally. No matter the world, no matter the technology level, Quinn knew a professional when he saw one.
“How much is our budget for tonight?” he asked.
“Not nearly enough for that,” Logan said.
All of the men were at the bar, a massive slab of black marble atop a dark wood base. The marble was a foot thick and looked to be a single piece. Probably as heavy as it was expensive. Three shelves lined the wall behind the bar. Each held about a dozen silver chalices, in which rested round, corked glass bottles of Valteroni liquor.
“We’ll blend in here if we’re drinking,” Quinn said.
“All right, but I’m not carrying you out of here,” Logan said.
“Such a gentleman,” Quinn said.
Chaudri was going to be green with envy. She’d spent a long time lecturing Quinn on the protocols for storing and transporting Valteroni liquor. Like, a really long time. The rules made French vintners look easygoing. Apparently the research team had taken numerous samples over the years, subjecting them to chemical and mass spectrometry assays to determine the origin of these expensive distillations. As yet, they were unable to unravel the complex structure of the liquids, or even determine the source. What they did find out, though, was that Valteroni liquors were prized for individuality—no two kinds had the same viscosity and taste. There were even subtle differences from one bottle to the next.
