The Rogue Retrieval (10 page)

For Quinn, she opened a wooden cabinet nestled among the shelves that lined the back wall. The bottom half of the cabinet was a solid block of ice. Above it rested a wire shelf with frosted, gold-­rimmed tumblers. She used a pair of wooden tongs to pluck one of these from the rack and set it on the bar in front of Quinn. His drink cost about twice as much as Logan's, if he wasn't mistaken, but the result would be worth it.

The bartender retrieved a round glass bottle from the top shelf and uncorked it. She poured it into the frosted tumbler from beneath the bar. The liquor was clear when it came out of the bottle, but turned a honey-­gold color when it hit the glass.

“Beautiful,” Quinn said.

The captain beside him took notice, and gave a nod of approval.

“Perhaps one for the good captain?” Quinn asked the bartender, daring to flash her a wink as well.

“Mmm, handsome
and
generous,” she said. “Not bad for a northerner.”

She poured another frozen glass of the “gold and cold” for the captain and slid it in front of him. Quinn took his glass at the same time as the other man. They clinked glasses and drank.

The foremost Alissian experts, Richard Holt included, had attempted to describe exactly what Valteroni gold liquor tastes like. Half of them could not put it into words. The other half couldn't agree on them.

Quinn expected it to feel cold at first, given the frosted glass and everything, but there was no real sensation of temperature, hot or cold. The liquor simply flowed across his tongue, stimulating taste buds he didn't even know were there. He understood right away why the research team had struggled so much. This one, as far as Quinn could best describe it, tasted like sunshine.

The ship captain's drink might have been similar, because it made him smile. “Thank you for that,” he said. “I love the golden stuff, but if I let myself drink it without occasion, I'd be bankrupt.”

“I don't drink any other kind,” Quinn said. Technically, it was true since this was his first glass.

“That, my friend, is an opulent lifestyle,” the captain said.

Quinn shrugged. “Fortune has smiled upon me, and life is short. Why have anything but the best?”

“I'll drink to that,” the man said. He took another sip, savoring it. Meanwhile, Logan's drink seemed to make him angry. It was either bad luck with the dark liquor, or else he got what he paid for.

It occurred to Quinn that they hadn't paid for anything yet, despite being about twenty pieces of silver in to the bartender. He had some vague recollection of how one was supposed to pay for drinks in Valteron, but couldn't dredge it up. Hopefully Logan would remember.

The captain chuckled to himself. “Strange coincidences.”

“What's that?” Quinn asked.

“I'm just lucky, that's all. Two strangers have bought me drinks inside of a week. Not even Valteroni, either.”

“Someone else was in here buying drinks?” Logan asked.

“Sure was. Serious fellow, and he was throwing some silver around buying drinks for all of the captains. Wanted to get to Valteron right away.” His face clouded.

“His name wasn't Richard, was it?” Logan asked. “Balding fellow, middle-­aged, talks like a poet?”

“Ah, you know him.”

“He's an old friend,” Logan said.

“Nice fellow. We talked for a ­couple of hours. Knew even more about Valteroni liquor than I do.”

“I'm not surprised,” Logan said. “He always could talk my ear off. You know, I'd like to catch up with him, actually. Is he still around?”

“Don't think so. He eventually persuaded old Jock to sell him passage south, back to Valteron.”

“What kind of ship?”

“Coast-­cutter.”

Logan smiled, though it was visibly forced. “He's a persuasive guy, isn't he?” He rested a fist on the bar, with the thumb between two of his fingers. One of the basic hand signals he'd taught Quinn; this one meant,
Time to go
.

Quinn pretended not to see it. “Did he seem nervous at all?” he asked.

“Distracted, more like. And eager to get to Valteron.”

That had to mean something. Quinn just couldn't figure out what it was. Surely Holt had heard the news by then. “A shame about the Prime,” he said.

“Heard about that, did you? Bad news travels fast.” The captain made an odd gesture, pouring just a drop of his liquor onto the counter, dipping a finger, touching it to his forehead. “Gods look after the Prime. He was a good man.”

The barmaid came back. “See anything else you like?” she asked. She met his eyes when she said it, and Quinn liked that. He liked her smile, too, and the way she sort of leaned over the bar a little bit toward him. He'd be happy to buy another round, or ten rounds, but Logan cleared his throat a little too loudly.

Quinn sighed. “I suppose I should settle up.”

Her smile faded just a little, but he tipped enough to bring it back in spades. Maybe on the way back, Kiara would grant them some shore leave. He wouldn't mind spending a little extra time here.

He put his hand on the captain's shoulder. “I'll pray for Valteron, Captain.”

The man gave him an odd look. “You sound like a brother of the Star.”

“I used to be one,” Quinn said.

They took their wooden markers back to the doorman and reclaimed their weapons. Logan made a big show of unsheathing and inspecting his knives, while the doorman pretended not to notice.

But Logan found nothing to complain about, so the doorman ushered them out into the cool night air. The door closed firmly behind them. Logan made sure that no one was around, and then activated his comm link to raise Kiara.

“We've got something,” he told her.

“Better be good,” Kiara said. “I just spent two hours buying drinks for naval officers who didn't know anything.”

“Holt was in the House of Valteron buying drinks a few days ago. Seems like he caught a ride south.”

“How good is the intel?”

“Bradley can offer his own opinion, but I think it's legit.”

“I'm with Logan on this,” Quinn said.

“What sort of craft is he on?”

“A coast-­cutter.”

“Damn.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Well, that settles it. If he goes by sea, so do we. Go get us passage on the fastest Valteroni ship you can find.”

“Will do,” Logan said. He tilted his head back toward the House of Valteron's door. They knocked again. The same doorman answered. He looked at them with that same appraising, disdainful stare. “This is a Valteroni bar,” he said.

“You've got to be kidding me,” Quinn said.

 

“Valteron is the most powerful of Alissian nations, owing to their trading fleet and navy. Perhaps also contributory is the omnipotent role of a single ruler: the Valteroni Prime.”

—­
R
.
H
OLT,
“S
UMMARY
OF
A
LISSIAN
C
ITY-­S
TATES
”

CHAPTER 9

SEA LEGS

O
f course it had to be their drinking buddy from the House of Valteron who had the next ship headed south. Something about his conversation with Quinn and Logan had made the man homesick. That didn't stop him from accepting two more rounds of Valteroni liquor before he agreed to take them on.

Quinn and Logan reunited with Chaudri and Kiara back at the Lost Lady, a two-­story inn located uphill, and more importantly upwind, of the crowded waterfront. The liquor had Quinn's head swimming by then.

The building featured a small common room, stout wooden doors, and a communications relay hidden on the roof. The lieutenant wanted a good signal—­they'd probably be out of range while at sea. The inn's proprietor was a slight fellow of fair complexion; he couldn't be more than twenty-­five. He arranged for a late-­night meal while his brother, a much stouter version of the same stock, cleared the drunken sailors from the common room.

The food was good. Quinn remembered that much. The thick white soup reminded him of clam chowder from back home, savory and piping hot. There were loaves of bread, the heavy brown kind. He ate as much as he could, hoping to soak up some of the alcohol. He finished his bowl and another one after that. Chaudri had two bowls; Logan put away three without breaking a sweat. Kiara promised to rouse everyone by sunrise, so Quinn didn't waste any time after that. He found his tiny room near the attic, feeling dizzy but sated. The Valteroni gold gave him strange dreams filled with sunshine and pretty barmaids.

As usual, it was Logan's fist on the door that woke him.

“Up and at 'em, ladies' man,” he said.

Quinn groaned. His head was pounding, and the rest of him felt like he'd been hit by a truck. “Ow.”

“Told you to go easy,” Logan said.

“Can I have another hour?”

“Sorry, we got a boat to catch.”

He dressed slowly and followed Logan out, wishing for sunglasses. The sunlight made his headache even worse.

They met their captain at the end of one of the docks, where two husky dockworkers were loading a wooden crate. The ship was a two-­master with plenty of sail, deep-­hulled but in good shape. Logan and Chaudri had given it a thorough inspection. The horses were already on board; Kiara had arranged for them to be brought right to the dock. All but the mountain pony, because there simply wasn't enough room in the hold. The captain wasn't happy about having any of the “crap producers” on his ship at all until his purse was heavy with lab-­created emeralds.

His name was Legato and he'd been running the trade routes between Valteron and the northern city-­states for fifteen years. Apparently Valteroni liquor had absolutely no effect on him. Quinn hadn't even finished his second one, and he was already feeling the start of a brutal headache. Weak as the late-­year sun was, it seemed much brighter on the water. He stepped on the deck of Legato's craft and groaned.

Logan clapped him on the shoulder. “Ever been on a sea voyage?”

“A ­couple of sunset cruises on yachts. How similar will that be?”

Logan laughed and followed the lieutenant below. Quinn couldn't make himself follow just yet.

Chaudri put a hand on his shoulder. “Rough morning?”

“My head's killing me.”

“You got us a ride, though. We're lucky to have one.”

“You'd think the company would have built us a ship.”

She glanced around and lowered her voice. “We tried that once. It didn't go well.”

He was curious enough to nearly forget the pain. “Really?”

She pulled a notebook from her satchel and flipped through to a page with a sketch of an old clipper ship. “Here it is. The
Victoria
.”

“Looks like a whaling ship.”

“Only on the outside. The inside was state of the art. Kiara's predecessor, Captain Relling, had it built in-­world with native timber.”

“So where is it now?” He'd have killed for a modern bed in a dark, dark room.

“Relling and her crew disappeared on their maiden voyage, along with the ship.”

“No wreckage or anything?” Quinn asked.

“Nothing. We searched for months and never found a trace of them.”

“Oh,” Quinn said. “Sorry to hear that.”

“We took it hard. Kiara especially.”

“I can imagine,” he said. The lieutenant didn't seem one to take failure very well.

Chaudri was about to say more when the captain marched up the gangplank. He spotted them and bellowed a laugh.

“How are you this morning, my friend?” He shook Quinn's hand vigorously, causing little spikes of pain to begin jabbing at his temples. “What a night we had last night, eh? Look at what I brought to keep us entertained, thanks to your prompt and generous payment.”

He lifted the lid of a small wooden crate nestled inside the ship's rail. In it, carefully packed with straw, were four bottles that looked all too familiar.

Oh, no
, Quinn thought. He shivered involuntarily. “I hope that's not—­”

“Valteroni gold!” Legato said. He saw Quinn's mouth hanging open and laughed. “I knew you'd be excited. Gods, it feels good to be heading home.”

Within the hour, Legato's men had raised sail and tossed off the dock lines. Steady wind filled the sails; the ship shuddered into motion. Quinn disliked the sensation of the deck moving slowly, ponderously, beneath him. He found it far more comfortable in the generous quarters Legato had set aside. Apparently the man had decided that Quinn's taste in liquors meant he could only get by with the finer things. He, Logan, Kiara, and Chaudri had four small cabins at the rear of the craft.

Quinn found his bunk to lie down, which quickly proved a mistake. Once out of the bay's protected waters, the ship began rolling and falling with the seas, which were just high enough to give Quinn a sense of vertigo every ten seconds or so.

Not exactly the rest he had been looking for.

He came up on deck after they'd been under way a ­couple of hours. Kiara was on the deck talking to Legato. Logan stood near the mast, watching the crew while pretending not to. Quinn ambled over to him, close enough for a quiet conversation.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“The captain just told the crew that we're headed to Valteron,” Logan said. “They were . . . surprised.”

“I'd think they would be glad to head home. Legato certainly is.”

“It's risky making port in a city that just lost its leader. Every other ship is headed the other way, and the crew knows it.”

That explained the stiff actions of the sailors, the way they shared dark looks with one another as they worked.

“Should I be worried?” Quinn asked.

“Don't know yet.”

Quinn stretched and looked around, trying to count how many sailors it took to work the sails and the rigging. At least four or five per mast, and the ship had two. They knew their business, though. The sails bulged with wind, and prow of the ship sliced through the sea with the sound of rushing water.

“What's the worst-­case scenario?” Quinn asked.

“You don't want to know.”

“Try me.”

“They kill Legato, cut our throats, and feed us to the sharks.”

“Can't we hole up in our cabins, if it gets bad?”

“Sure,” Logan said. “But then we have no control over where they go.”

They needed the crew on their side; that was certain. If there were a mutiny, the passengers would be the first to die.

“Let me perform for them,” Quinn said.

“Why?” Logan asked.

“Entertainment. Keep their minds off the destination,” Quinn said. And maybe make them wary of him, which could be useful.

Kiara turned away from Legato long enough to weigh in. “I don't like this idea. The more attention we draw, the more they'll remember us later.”

Quinn was disappointed, but not really surprised. Kiara liked to keep him under a tight yoke.

“I think it might be worth a shot, Lieutenant,” Logan said. Surprising him. “Their mood's getting darker by the hour. They could use the distraction.”

Kiara seemed to weigh her options for a while. “Fine. But I want him to bring it up. The captain seems to think they're best friends now.”

Quinn knew how the man would have to be convinced, and his stomach churned at the thought. But Legato was far more pliable with drink in him.

“Captain!” Quinn called, over the rail. “How about a drink tonight?”

Legato grinned. “I knew you'd get your thirst back.”

H
alf a night and three rounds of golden liquor later, Quinn had gotten Legato to sign off. That night was shot, of course, as was the morning. Meanwhile the crew's grumblings increased in frequency and volume. If he was going to change the tone of the conversation, he'd have to do it soon.

He needed a stage, of course, and so Legato tasked a ­couple of sailors to help him build one near the bow of the ship—­more grumbling. But it was necessary if his act was going to work. Nothing special here; Quinn just had to quietly install some screw-­in wire loops, magnets, a stepping platform colored to blend in with the deck, that sort of thing. Just the basic props of a street magician, nothing more. Kiara insisted on low-­tech since he'd be under close scrutiny.

Meanwhile, Legato's ship was under full sail heading due south, driven by a cold wind out of the north. They stayed in view of land for much of the journey, but never too close. Keeping to the deep channels had them tacking out and back again, balancing between keeping land in sight while not running aground.

The wind was good but time was against them. The coast-­cutter that Holt was on, according to Logan, was a shallow-­draft, single-­mast craft with a keel that could be raised or lowered at will, allowing it to glide across the shallow flats in a straight line toward the southern ports. They'd already gotten a head start and would gain another day on speed alone, a day and a half if her captain was good. And Quinn guessed that her captain was one of the best. Holt would probably have a nose for such things.

Even so, Quinn tried not to dwell on the mission and instead focused on the magic. Everything he'd done in Alissia was impromptu, either to distract or impress or save his own skin. Now, with a bit of planning, he could bring out some of the better illusions he and the engineers had cooked up back on Earth.

For a moment his thoughts flickered to the engineers. He'd spent weeks getting to know them, and building the equipment to bring along. The head of the prototyping lab was a guy named Julian Miller. Turned out he was a bow hunter, too. Big game up in Manitoba. He'd been the one to put a laser rangefinder on Quinn's bow.

That was weeks ago now, and Kiara had still received no signal from the company since coming through. Quinn hoped to God that Julian and his crew were all right.

And that it wasn't my fault. . .

He shook that thought from his head. All that mattered now was making sure the sailors didn't cut their throats and feed them to the sharks.

He was ready near sunset, just after the evening meal. Legato's crew normally underwent a shift change then, but the captain allowed all but a skeleton crew to assemble in the front of the ship to watch. The sky was a backdrop of blaze orange and pink; the seas for once were blessedly calm. Quinn took the stage and turned to assess his crowd.

The body language told the story, and the muttering about whether or not this would be a waste of their time.

“Perhaps the captain has told you already,” Quinn pronounced, his voice raised to carry to the crewmen at the back of the mainmast. “I'm not from Valteron, though I love your fine city-­state.” He won a ­couple of nods from that. “I've been beyond the shores of Alissia. I've seen things no Alissians have seen.”

While he was talking he put on the gloves, one white and one black. This audience wouldn't know from experience to watch the white-­gloved hand or the other, but the instinct would come naturally. That was one thing Quinn loved about magic. Done well, it captivated the naive and the jaded with equal wonder.

“The captain's a decent fellow,” Quinn said. “And he loves his liquor, doesn't he?”

A few soft laughs from the audience; they knew well enough.

“But he was kind enough to lend me a bottle for this performance. Thank you, Captain.” Quinn raised a round, corked bottle in salute. Legato nodded, the very picture of genteel grace. Pandering to the venue owner always,
always
paid off. Even if this one was oblivious to the mood of his crew.

Quinn took out a metal cup with a handle, the kind most of the crew used for their water rations. “A plain cup,” he said. He brought it to the nearest crewmen and let them inspect it. “Here, have a look.” They turned it over in their hands, tapped on it, nodded and gave it back.

He uncorked the bottle. “When we first met, I bought your captain a drink. Well, several drinks, if I'm being honest.”

Amusement rippled through the sailors; he was warming them up.

He began pouring the liquor into the cup. He kept pouring, kept pouring. After a moment it was clear even to the dullest mind on deck that he'd poured far more than the cup should be able to hold. The bottle was half-­empty, two-­thirds empty. He upended it over the cup, letting the last drops fall.

“You know what I learned? When the captain's around, liquor has a funny habit of . . . disappearing.”