by Taven Moore
The man pushed his way to the human guard’s side. He wore a smartly-tailored dove-grey suit with a matching top hat. A black, silver-topped cane twirled easily in one hand, and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee framed a distinguished mouth.
“What . . . Inspector Gideon? What are you doing here?” asked the guard captain.
Gideon? Remora’s heart leapt. That had been the name on the strange letter she had received just before encountering the Goralor and guard captain!
“What am I—good man, I am here to inspect, of course.” Gideon rested both hands on the ball of his cane, relaxed and calm.
“I don’t have time for this. I’m making an arrest.”
“Oh, by all means, don’t let me stop you.” Gideon paused theatrically, then leaned toward the guard captain as if to speak conspiratorially, though he still maintained full volume. “You do realize this lovely lady and her ship are out of your jurisdiction, though, do you not?”
The guard captain sputtered. “I know no such thing! This my dockyard!”
“Ah, dear boy, you really must get with the times. This portion of the dock—why, come to think of it, only this small portion of the dock currently occupied by this ship—now belongs to my employer and is, for all legal intents and purposes, part of the Guadosalam Skycity. And you do not work for Guadosalam.”
The guard captain’s face turned red, then purple. “You! You! You did this! You planned this!”
“Nonsense! I’m simply here to inspect, as my title suggests is my position.”
“You are a food inspector!”
“Come now, no need to be crass. There’s no shame in a job well done. Trade between Bespin and Guadosalam has improved, in no small part because of my efforts here.”
Gideon turned away from the man and called up to Remora. “Begging your pardon, Lady, but may I board your vessel to begin my inspection?”
His gray eyes sparkled, clearly amused. Remora smiled back at him, relieved. “I would be honored to have such a distinguished gentleman to share my time with. Do you like orange spice tea? I have some lovely Melange aboard.”
“As it happens,” he said, “I would adore a cuppa.”
Remora smiled brightly at him, relaxing completely. It had been so very long since she’d spent time with a gentleman, she had almost forgotten what polite conversation should be like.
Gideon turned and visibly started at the sight of the guard captain. “Are you still here? Have you no other work to do? I could contact your superiors, if you find yourself at loose ends.”
The guard’s face turned an unhealthy shade of purple. “No, sir.” He spun and barked at the waiting Goralor, still lifting and aiming their weapons. “Guards, at ease! Return to your previous posts, and make it snappy!”
At her side, Jinn muttered, “I do not trust this man, Miss Remora.”
Remora patted him on the arm. “You worry too much. I trust him, and I am an excellent judge of character.” She did wonder what Gideon wanted with her ship, and why he would go to such great lengths. If he truly had purchased their current dock, then he wanted something. Still, people who wanted something of her set her at ease—she was used to that.
Inspector Gideon strode up the ramp separating the docks from the Miraj with aplomb, despite the fact that the airship hovered mid-air and a fall from the ramp would result in a nasty drop. “Now, dear girl, do please tell me the name I may call you in public. And I do hope that promise of tea was genuine. I find myself parched.”
He extended his elbow. Delighted, Remora threaded her palm through and rested her tiny hand on the crook of his sleeve. “You may call me ‘Miss Gates’ around strangers and ‘Remora’ among friends. I never joke about tea. And you have my thanks, for what you did below.”
He shook off her thanks neatly. “Think nothing of it, my dear, it was a pleasure to set that young pup back a pace or two. I believe you’d not have needed my help at all, had he complied with the law he professes to uphold.”
Remora blushed at the compliment, allowing Gideon to escort her down the ramp and into the empty hold below. “Inspector Gideon, you are too kind. Ah! And that reminds me. Are you truly an inspector of food? Our crew has recently had some grocery-related difficulties. Perhaps we could discuss solutions over tea?”
“My dear, I should be positively riveted,” he said, with such sincerity that it made her heart warm.
Behind them, she heard the low rumble she had come to associate with Jinn’s displeasure, but she ignored it. She hadn’t had civilized conversation since leaving Westmouth, and she would not allow him to ruin this for her.
9. Paladin Gerard
Hank finished the final piece of his costume, tightening the cheek strap of the leather muzzle. Standing back, he surveyed the results in the black-edged mirror of the captain’s head.
A stranger stared back at him from sunken, shadowed eyes. Hank’s unruly sandy hair was gone, tucked beneath a patched and re-patched leather skullcap. The muzzle cradled his face from the bridge of his nose to the underside of his chin, opaque breathing screens on either side filtering the air for breathing. The mask obscured almost all of his features and turned any expression into a forbidding shadow of its original self.
A brown leather officer’s corset squeezed in his waist and forced his posture to military stiffness. His chest and shoulders lay bare, an actual scar here and there lending credibility to his disguise. Buckled leather crossed his elbows, holding the detached cloth sleeves in place. Wide-legged pants in a matching cloth hid his legs (as well as the alchemist gun and array of knives he’d strapped to his thighs) and tall wooden sandals replaced his accustomed leather boots.
Holstered around his waist, an array of vials holding brightly-colored liquids sloshed and clinked dangerously with each movement.
Hank stepped away from the dim light around his mirror, the shadows greedily swallowing his form.
No matter how many times he donned the guise of Gerard, Hank still felt a chill at the sight of himself—felt the useless urge to back away slowly.
In his line of work (that of pirate and con man), he had need of a great many disguises, from memorable-yet-absurd mustaches to various wigs and props. This guise was his least favorite, but most effective.
Today, he needed to fool Bespin security into thinking he was not the man they were no doubt eager to search this ship for. “Handsome” Hank McCoy needed to disappear.
“Gerard the Paladin” consumed the identity of McCoy so utterly that at times Hank wondered if true Paladins felt the same—if any of them even remembered the names they wore before joining the order.
“The altercation outside appears to have ended,” Bones’s voice sounded through the speaking tube. “Miss Remora, Jinn, and a single stranger are re-boarding the ship.”
Hank nodded once, despite the fact that Bones couldn’t possibly see him. “Understood. Everyone remember their roles?”
“Aye,” came Hackwrench’s response, chattering followed by monotone recorded voice. “Should you call me ‘Captain’ or ‘Sir,’ I wonder?”
A flicker of something akin to jealousy curled in Hank’s belly. He lifted his hand and rested a palm against the warm wood of the wall. The Miraj was still his. Hackwrench would play his part, just as the rest of them would.
And if Hackwrench played his part a little too well, Hank would make sure the little shonfra paid for any humiliation tenfold as soon as this charade was no longer necessary.
“I know my role,” said Bones, and Hank knew he wasn’t imagining the note of unhappiness in his first mate’s voice. Hank didn’t say anything and Bones didn’t try to argue against the plan.
Bones could pass for human if and only if the people looking at him weren’t paying attention. If the ship was to be searched, the people doing the searching would most definitely be paying attention, and Hank would not let them find Bones. He’d lose his ship before he’d lose Bones. His fingers traced the curve of one of the vials on his belt,
wondering if it would be blasphemous to offer up a prayer for protection while wearing the identity of a holy man whose religion he didn’t pretend to follow.
“Not that the gods ever listen to me anyway,” he muttered, fingers pulling away from the vials. He checked the mirror one last time, just to be certain that no sign of Hank McCoy remained. A grotesque Paladin looked back at him. He nodded to Gerard, as if greeting an old acquaintance who might choose to slay him.
Gerard nodded back.
Gooseflesh broke out across his arms and Hank hoped Gerard wouldn’t need to stay for long.
Hackwrench’s voice, translated by his ship, broke the silence. “This is your captain speaking. Crew meeting in the dining room, on the double.”
Hank left immediately, heading to the mess. Best to get this over with quickly. If Bones was right, Remora had somehow managed to get only a single inspector aboard the ship. They’d fool him, finish whatever harebrained scheme had led Remora to Bespin, and be on their way before the local guards had a chance to get suspicious.
Preferably also before any other Paladins came to find out who this mysterious “Gerard” character was and burned him alive for heresy.
When Hank entered the mess, both Remora and the grey-suited inspector faced away from the door, chatting quietly while seated around the table. Leaning uneasily against the far wall, Jinn started visibly as Hank appeared. A momentary pause, then Jinn relaxed as he recognized Hank, leaning back against the wall and giving a curt nod.
How had the Shinra known who he was? Gerard was his most effective disguise!
His momentary disappointment at Jinn’s response was more than made up for by the inspector’s reaction. Perhaps sensing that someone had entered the room, the gray-suited man turned. Upon seeing “Gerard” for the first time, his eyes widened and he scrambled back, falling from his seat in his haste to get away. His gray felt hat sailed away and his knuckles whitened around the head of the cane he carried.
Expression unseen beneath the mask, Hank frowned. He was accustomed to folks giving Gerard a wide berth and not looking too closely at him, but the grey suited man’s reaction had been closer to true terror. Why would the man find the sight of a Paladin so frightening?
For her part, Remora merely glanced at Hank. Without pause, she pursed her lips in disapproval.
“Really now? What sort of behavior is that, frightening our guest? Deplorable manners! I’ve never seen such childishness.” She leaned down to offer her hand to the inspector, who grasped at it blindly, eyes never leaving “Gerard’s” face.
Impossible! Remora had recognized him immediately. Hank’s frown turned into a full-blown scowl. At the very least, he’d hoped for surprise or shock. What was it about this infuriating slip of a girl that always managed to find the least expected path in any situation?
“Captain” Hackwrench entered the room then, delaying any further conversation. He chittered as his flying craft navigated to the table, and the ship translated. “Ah, good, Paladin Gerard, I see you’ve joined us.”
Remora blinked, looking from Hackwrench to Hank in confusion. “Captain Hackwrench? Gerard? What sort of—”
“Good afternoon, Captain. Miss Gates,” Hank interrupted deliberately, enunciating each syllable of her name with care. Comprehension dawned in her eyes, followed immediately by the exact sort of irritation he’d felt when she had dropped her pseudonym so unceremoniously in his lap, back on Terrapin Isle. A smile no one else could see curved his lips. See how she liked the taste of her own medicine.
“Good afternoon, Paladin Gerard,” she finally replied, lips thin.
“This Paladin is . . . a member of your crew?” asked the inspector, slowly regaining his feet. Remora rescued the man’s gray felt hat, dusting it carefully before returning it to him.
Remora lifted her chin. “He is,” she admitted, as if the very words pained her.
“I . . . see.” The man set the hat back on his head, giving Hank a sharp, careful look. Hank did not like that look. It sat at odds with the man’s casual demeanor. It reminded Hank of a dog he’d once known who would wag his tail and whine appealingly one moment, only to leap to silent attack the moment a person’s back was turned. Hank returned the even gaze with a measuring look of his own.
“Is this the entirety of your crew, then?” asked the man as he set the hat back upon his salt-and-pepper hair.
“Oh, well. There is also Bones,” Remora answered breezily.
“Bones?” the man asked. Hank glared at both of them and wished for them to melt into puddles. Why would she call attention to Bones? Was she mad?
Blithely unaware of his irritation (or perhaps ignoring it), Remora responded, “Yes, he’s a ticker, and he—”
“Ah, a ticker,” the man said, waving a hand dismissively. “That must have been expensive, true, but I meant crew members. People.”
Remora paused, a look of profound confusion on her face. “But Bones is—”
“That is the entirety of our crew,” Hank interrupted. “We have a free shonfra aboard who we are delivering to some friends here on Bespin, but he is not a member of the crew.”
“Interesting,” the man said, gingerly seating himself again. “I suppose if I were to search this entire ship, I should find no reason to disbelieve what you say.”
Hank thought of Snow, stowed away in the best hiding spot their ship had to offer. This man could search every bolt of their ship and not find her. Jinn had asserted beyond all hope of reasoning that Snow’s presence on the ship would endanger them more, even, than if Hank’s true identity were known.
“Most curious,” the man muttered, tapping a finger against his lips. “Particularly,” he added, almost idly, “since word has it that a pirate ship matching, as it happens, the precise description of this very ship upon which we stand, recently tangled with a Swan-class airship on Bespin Seraph business. Now, there are no official reports on the incident, but I have it on rather good authority that one of the items stolen from the Swan was of particular interest and value. A dresl. A white-leopard dresl, to be exact.”
Hank’s mouth tightened. When this was over, he was going to take Jinn outside and force that tight-lipped, Roith’delat’en Shinra to tell him just what in the name of the nine Ardelan hells was going on with that cat. His “job” for the Shima brothers had resulted in no end of troubles.
“Not that it would interest you, of course, as you have no such dresl aboard. However,” the man said in a tone that bordered upon the disinterested, “a clever sort of person might make a correlation between that dresl and the missing concubine of the High Lord Vakaano. The very concubine whose return, it is said, he craves with a most fervent desire. One can only wonder what sort of secrets a dresl might have overheard in a position so close to power as that.”
The entire room seemed to hold its breath. All but the man in gray, of course, who seemed unaffected by the sudden silence. “It is good that this is not the ship bearing the dresl. If it were, I should worry for your safety, if you had no plan to protect yourself from the combined might of the Bespin Seraphs themselves.”
A pause, too long. Hank’s mind raced. Clearly, this man knew a great deal. Just how much, Hank couldn’t be certain, but the fact that it was more than Hank himself knew of their situation was unquestionable. And irritating.
Whoever this man was, he could have chosen to turn them in. Instead, he seemed to be giving them a choice.
There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, Hank thought. Whatever this man wanted, it was to his own benefit, and no charity. Again, Hank remembered that sly dog. Talking to this man would be akin to letting that dog in his home.
Not talking to this man could get them killed, though.
“Who are you?” Hank asked.
The man smiled. “Ah! I am so very glad you asked. I am known as Inspector Gideon. My employer has bade me make my services available to the crew of this ship, should it become necessary.”
Hank lifted an ey
ebrow. “Your employer?”
Gideon’s lip twitched, whether amusement or fear, Hank could not tell. “He said that if you should ask after his identity, I should tell you his name is Verbal Sozay.”
Hank scoffed. “And we should believe this why?”
Gideon tugged idly at one of his white leather gloves. “So asks the man calling himself ‘Paladin Gerard’ and the girl calling herself ‘Gates’.”
So Gideon, too, knew his identity? Hank opened his mouth to retort, but Remora beat him to it. “I should hardly expect more trust from your employer than we are willing to extend ourselves. Please, gentlemen. This is not the sort of discussion one has while standing about! We are civilized folk, not barbarians. Sit, please. Jinn shall prepare for us some tea.”
“That sounds marvelous,” said Gideon. Remora beamed at the man in pure delight and took her seat next to him.
Both Remora and Gideon stared at Hank, clearly expecting him to acquiesce.
Even Jinn looked amused, moving to set a kettle on to boil.
Hackwrench hopped from his ship, prehensile tail curling around the base of his cup.
He was not going to just stand idly by while that pint-sized furball overtook his place at the table, that was for sure! If his identity was known, there was no reason to continue the charade and Hackwrench could return to his own seat.
Hank snarled and brushed Hackwrench aside with a heavy arm.
Hackwrench looked once at Hank as if to argue, then fell silent and hopped over to his normal seat without argument, froglike feet slapping against the table’s wood.
Hank sat, sullen, while the Shinra prepared tea.
He absolutely hated tea.
Remora clapped her hands together as if she’d orchestrated this whole meeting. “Well now! No need to be shy. Let us dive right into the matters at hand. Gideon, dear, I mentioned our grocery-related difficulties earlier. Could you, perchance, introduce us to someone who can assist in the stocking of our larder? The last time I attempted the shopping myself, it did not end well at all.”
