by Dan Koboldt
One mission, two casualties. Both of them were Logan’s fault, too. He should never have agreed to let Bradley off the leash. And Veena, well . . . that one would haunt him for a long time. He’d been two steps away when she went overboard.
Mendez had taken it hard. He followed Logan’s orders without question, but never cracked so much as a smile. There was a darkness in him, and it was growing.
“Which role do you want?” Logan asked, as they sauntered along the Bluewatch waterfront, looking for the right kind of establishment.
“I’ll play backup. You can be the dope.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They passed a couple of routine alehouses that catered to sailors, then a much nicer establishment that had the look of a captain’s bar. That would likely be where the Valteroni ships’ officers were holed up, so Logan figured it best to give them a wide berth. Instead, he and Mendez traveled up a narrow lane off the waterfront strip to where several unshaven men loitered outside a ramshackle building. Mendez hung back and took up a position against the wall. Logan swept back his cloak enough that his sword was plainly visible, and ducked inside.
He paused just across the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the lamplit dimness, and to check his corners before he committed to the room. Two tables, both unoccupied and still not cleared of last night’s ale glasses. Another pair of tables in the middle of the alehouse lay similarly empty. Fourteen stools at the bar, eight of them occupied, with plenty of space between the drinkers.
Logan slid onto an empty stool and made contact with the bartender, a stout man with a cudgel on his belt and the bearing that said he knew how to use it.
He took Logan’s measure a moment, then limped over. “What’ll it be?”
Logan plunked a fat silver coin down on the table—easily worth ten drinks, in a dive like this one—and slid it across. “Ale and introductions.”
“If yer looking for companionship, try the next alley over.”
“Not that kind of introductions. Looking to hire a couple of hands.”
“What kind?”
“Seaworthy types.”
The bartender spat, directing it just enough to the side to not mean an insult. “That applies to just about every man in town. Except maybe you.”
Ouch. “I need the kind who aren’t afraid of a scrap. And can keep their mouths shut.”
“Now you’re narrowing it down. Trouble is, I don’t know anyone like that.”
Logan put down another silver coin. “Sure you do.”
“It’s starting to come back, but I can’t put names to faces.”
Logan sighed, and put a third coin on the table. “How about now?”
The bartender had a theatrical revelation. “That’s right, I remember. Snicket and Ralf, down at the end of the bar. They’ve got twenty years on the deep blue between ’em.”
“Do they have a berth now?”
“No. Their last one went down with most hands in a storm.”
Logan grimaced. He’d experienced Alissian storms before, and couldn’t imagine trying to weather one in a wooden ship. “How’d they survive?”
“Buy them an ale, and maybe they’ll tell you.”
Half an hour and four ales later, Logan knew more about Ralf and Snicket than he ever wanted to.
“So we clung to that bit of timber all night, until a fishing boat happened by and plucked us free,” Snicket was saying. “Just us, out of thirty-six crew.”
“That’s rough. I feel for you,” Logan said. “How do you even go on from something like that?”
“The ale helps,” Ralf said. He never seemed to utter more than four words at a time.
“We get by, picking up a little work here and there,” Snicket said.
“Have you found much?” Logan asked, though he knew the answer. Alissians considered a shipwreck bad luck, and a sailor who survived one carried the stigma with him. Somehow the good fortune of not drowning came with the curse of never finding steady work again. Yet another backward concept brought about by this world’s superstitions.
Both men looked at their ales, not answering.
“I ask because I’m looking for a couple of hands right now.”
“For a berth?” Snicket asked. “What ship?”
“We’ll get to that,” Logan said.
Ralf set his tankard of ale down for the first time in half an hour. “What about pay?”
“That I can tell you about.” Logan set a fist-sized purse on the table, untied the top, and tilted it so they could see within. Lamplight glinted on dozens of silver and copper pieces. Normally, he’d never be as careless as to flash this amount of coin around an unsavory place like this, but he had to bait the hook for the right kind of contractor.
Snicket licked his lips. Ralf simply stared. Then they met one another’s eyes. A brief, unspoken thing passed between them.
“We’ll do it,” Ralf said.
“I haven’t even told you about the berth yet,” Logan said.
“Doesn’t matter. If you’ve got coin and are willing to take us, we’ll sail anywhere you want us to,” Snicket said.
“I should have details in the morning.” Logan shook out two coins, both of them silver, and tossed one to each man. “To hold your interest overnight.”
Snicket pocketed his coin straightaway, but Ralf tried it with his teeth. He saw Logan looking, and shrugged. “Never was one to trust in good fortune.”
“No offense taken,” Logan said.
“Where you staying?” Snicket asked.
“An inn down on the waterfront, forget the name,” Logan said. “It’s got a bird on the sign, I think.”
“The Needlebill.”
“Yeah, sounds right.” There was always a bird inn on the waterfront. In truth, he and Mendez would take rooms at a company-vetted manor house in the hills overlooking the bay, but the more misdirection, the better. “But no need to come to me. I’ll find you here tomorrow.”
“Great,” Snicket said.
“We’ll be here,” Ralf added.
“Until then.” Logan slid down from his stool and flipped one last coin to the bartender, who’d lingered nearby for that exact reason. He snatched it out of the air and gave Logan a nod of thanks.
Logan sauntered to the door and shoved it open, whistling to himself. Like he hadn’t a care in the world. The door slammed shut behind him.
Five, four, three, two, one . . .
A soft creak, as the door whispered open. Logan passed the loiterers, ignoring them. He didn’t look at Mendez but flashed a hand signal. Two bogeys. He kept whistling, kept walking. Turned the corner along the waterfront row, which was all but deserted this late in the evening. A boot scuffed the cobblestones as someone came up behind him. A hand caught him on the shoulder.
“Say there,” a man said. Ralf, judging by the word count.
Logan halted and turned to find Ralf and Snicket right up on him. He feigned surprise. “Gentlemen. Something wrong?”
“Not exactly,” Snicket said. “Just occurred to us that maybe we’ll collect our silver up front.”
“That’s not the way it usually works. How do I know you’ll still do the job?” Logan asked.
“You don’t.”
“Then I’m sure as hell not paying you now.”
“Matter of fact, you are. All of it,” Snicket said. He brandished a stout knife with a curved blade that Alissian sailors called a throatcutter. “Then we go our separate ways.”
“But this isn’t right.” Logan began backing away, one step, then another.
Ralf moved around to fence him in. He had a narrow dagger in one hand, brass knuckles in the other. Looked like he knew how to use them, too. “It’s not about fairness.”
“It’s about who’s holding the steel,” Snicket said.
Couldn’t have said it better myself. They’d passed the psychological examination. Now it was time for the final exam. Logan sighed and untied the purse
from his belt. He held it out toward Ralf. The man reached for it. Logan let it tumble to the ground. Ralf bent to retrieve it. And there’s my opening.
Logan grabbed the man’s head with two hands. Drove a knee into his face. He groaned and toppled backward.
Snicket changed the grip on his knife. “You’ll pay for that, you bastard.”
Mendez swung around the corner, sword drawn. Snicket glanced back at him, suddenly uncertain. Logan drew his own sword. He kicked Ralf in the midriff before he could stand again. Snicket tried to skirt sideways. Logan jabbed the point of his sword into the wall right in front of his face. Mendez boxed him in from the other side.
“All right, easy now!” Ralf let his dagger clatter to the cobblestones and held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.
“On your knees,” Logan said.
Snicket sank to his knees and bowed his head. “Listen, I’m sorry. We got mouths to feed, and no one’ll hire us.”
“I told you—I’m paying you when the job is done,” Logan said. “Not a moment sooner.”
Snicket blinked a few times, as if not trusting his ears. “You’re—you’re still going to pay us?”
“Generously.” Logan put away his sword and hauled Ralf back to his feet. The nose was bloody, but didn’t look broken. He mumbled curses, but couldn’t come up with three intelligible words. “Sorry about the nose.”
“But why?” Snicket asked.
“Like I said, I need a couple of hands.” Logan offered a crooked grin. “No conscience required.”
Mendez sheathed his sword, and kicked the dagger back toward Snicket.
“This here’s Rico, one of my associates,” Logan said. “He’s here to emphasize that you will do as I say, and you won’t make the mistake of trying to cross me a second time. Is that understood?”
“Clear as spring water,” Snicket said.
Logan looked to Ralf, who nodded.
“Good. Now, get some rest so you’ll be ready to work tomorrow.”
“Might be easier if we knew what we were in for,” Snicket said.
“We’re going to steal a Valteroni ship.”
“Gods above,” Snicket whispered. “We are cursed.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I didn’t until now.”
“Look at it this way. If we pull this off, it’s a good sign you’ve got your luck back. And you’ll have the silver to prove it.”
“Suppose there’s that,” Snicket said.
“So, you’re up for it?”
“Suppose so.”
Logan turned back to Ralf. “What about you?”
Ralf hawked and spat a bloody mess to one side. “Almost rather you kill us now.”
Logan chuckled. I’ll be damned, he does know more than four words.
Chapter 5
The Family Business
“Good assistants keep the audience entertained and engaged. Great assistants distract so well that the magician can do whatever he wants.”
—Art of Illusion, January 15
Goldensong, the summer seat of the Caralissian queen, lay nestled among the sloping vineyards of central Caralis. Quinn had gotten the briefing on the monarchy’s governing structure, but the details lay beneath cobwebs in his mind. Overpriced wine, terrifying monarch, that sort of thing. Honestly, Logan’s description on the soldiers who escorted the wine caravans had proven far more memorable. He’d always delighted in speculating about the various ways in which Quinn might meet an untimely demise in violent fashion. Caralissian mercenaries meant serious business.
Then again, the more time Quinn and Jillaine spent in Caralis, the clearer it became that they took few things lightly. For starters, the number of bribes, threats, and interrogations required to track down the head of the Caralissian bounty hunters defied belief. Several days of legwork and a host of uncooperative sources had finally led to the name Mott the Miller, who ran this unassuming mill-station on the banks of the Diamond Ribbon.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Jillaine said.
“I think that’s on purpose.” Quinn lifted his cup of tea to blow on it, and stole another glance at the wooden structure across the lane. The windows were shuttered tight, and looked like they hadn’t been open in years. Cobwebs draped across the top of the iron-banded door. In contrast, the great waterwheel—which was nearly as tall as the structure itself—spun with a subtle urgency.
No one had come or gone from the mill since they’d begun their surveillance this morning. The riverside café offered a perfect cover. They’d claimed a table on the outdoor terrace with a clear view of the mill’s entrance. Even better, the place served only tea and biscuits, two things that made for slow dining. Enough foot traffic passed up and down the avenue for them to mill-watch while seeming to people-watch. A few of the passersby gave them second glances, but Quinn guessed that probably had something to do with the dress Jillaine wore. It was the color of daffodils, light and low-cut. Distracting as hell. Either she failed to understand the point of covert surveillance, or she simply enjoyed tormenting him.
Probably both.
“Maybe this isn’t the place,” she said.
Quinn shook his head. “It has to be.”
“Why?”
Because otherwise this was a massive waste of time and money. “All of our leads point here, and Burro said he was a miller.” He tilted his head at the building on the other side of the street. “That looks like a mill to me.”
A trio of figures approached down the street, walking close together. Their lockstep gait drew Quinn’s eye first, and the stiffness between them made him stare. The man and woman on either side held the arms of the brute in the middle. He wore a black-dyed leather jerkin and an open snarl.
Quinn inhaled sharply and looked away.
“What’s wrong?” Jillaine asked.
“Get a look at these three coming up the lane.”
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and turned her head to steal a glance down the avenue.
When the big fellow in the middle spotted the mill, the snarl fell from his face. Something more desperate and uncertain replaced it. He halted, and fought to escape his escorts. They struggled for a few seconds while everyone in the café—Quinn and Jillaine included—pretended not to notice. He shook off the woman. The man struggled to keep hold of him.
He might break free after all. Quinn silently rooted for him to do so.
Then the woman produced a cudgel and cracked him smartly in the temple. The big man slumped, and they half-dragged him the rest of the way up the avenue. They knocked on the iron-bound door to the mill, waited for half a minute, and then were let in by someone Quinn couldn’t see.
Jillaine picked up the delicate teapot and poured more tea for both of them. “It could still be a coincidence.”
Quinn bit back a smart-ass remark. Jillaine had made it expressly clear that she wasn’t fond of those. At the moment, things were a little fragile between them. No need to rock the boat. He itched to retort, but simply smiled and said, “Maybe. It depends on what happens next.”
A few minutes later, the iron-banded door opened to disgorge the man and woman. They made no obvious gesture, but something about their manner had the look of a late-night roulette winner leaving the casino floor. A bounce to the step that only newfound riches can convey. Looks like somebody got paid.
More importantly, the other man didn’t leave with them.
He kept his face down until they were well past, to make sure they didn’t get a close look. For all he knew, they’d just been sent out to search for him. No need to make it too easy.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think we’re, what is that phrase you like?” She made her voice gruff. “In business.”
“Oh, you’re imitating me now?”
She shrugged, but it was playful. “You have an odd way of speaking.”
He smiled, basking in the way her voice put a sh
iver on his spine. “You’re not the first to say that.”
“Oh? Who else?”
“Moric, on the first day I met him.”
“Oh.”
The mention of her father’s name brought the shadows back to Jillaine’s face.
Damn, shouldn’t have said that. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“I really hoped we’d find him here,” he said.
“Me, too.”
Quinn couldn’t ignore Occam’s razor on where Moric probably was—at the palace of the Valteroni Prime—but he dared not take Jillaine there, let alone risk going himself. Richard Holt would peg him for an outsider in about two seconds. And even if he didn’t, Kiara and her team almost certainly had eyes on Valteron City.
“Look at the bright side. You get to see more of the mainland.”
“Oh, yes.” Jillaine gestured to the mill where the unwilling fugitive had been forcibly dragged a few moments before. “It’s all very glamorous.”
“I did tell you that the Enclave was my favorite place here by far.”
“Yes. But then again, you told me a lot of things.”
Ouch. “And most of them were true.”
“It’s the ‘most’ that’s been the problem.”
Touché.
“Well, what do you want to do?” she asked.
“I’m thinking we go with the fake bounty hunter routine,” Quinn said.
“Never heard of it.”
“Oh, it’s a classic. And you get to be the bounty hunter, which will be more fun.”
She cringed a little. “I’m not sure I can pull that off. What do I even do?”
“And there’s costumes, too,” he said, pretending not to hear. He leaned back and gave her the up-and-down survey. “For you, I’m thinking leathers. Maybe a little chain mail to really sell it.”
She giggled. “I’ve never worn either of those.”
“All the more reason to try them. I’ll bet we can find something in that market down along the river.” They’d spotted the colorful pavilions on their way here. Quinn still had a pang of discomfort at the idea of crowded marketplaces, but at least they’d go in daylight.
