The Rogue Retrieval (11 page)

He turned the cup over and nothing came out; it was empty. The crew hooted with laughter and clapped appreciatively. Even Logan raised an eyebrow.

Kiara had come on deck; when Quinn saw her, he nearly dropped the cup entirely. She'd changed from her riding clothes into a long skirt and tunic. She had her hair down, too. It was longer than he'd guessed, and fell freely past her shoulders. She stood next to Logan, seemingly at ease and enjoying the show. Quinn had to look away to clear his head.

“So where did it go?” he asked the crowd. “Any guesses?”

“The captain's belly!” someone shouted.

“That was just my guess,” Quinn said. He stepped down from the stage and walked over to the captain. The crowd parted to let him pass.

“What do you say, Captain?” Quinn asked. It would have been far easier if Legato were in on it, but then he wouldn't be nearly as impressed. The captain had no idea what was coming, and it showed on his face.

“I've known a cup of liquor or two,” Legato said. “But it wasn't me. This time, at least.”

“I'm not sure I believe him,” Quinn said. “If you're innocent, Captain, could I have a look at your hat?”

“I suppose,” Legato said. He took it off with just a touch of reverence and handed it to Quinn.

“What's this?” Quinn asked. He turned the cap over, and a stream of clear liquid poured out, right into the mouth of the empty bottle. And the proof was evident, for when it touched the glass, the clear liquid turned to gold.

He had to inspect the captain's boots next, and found even more liquor in each of them. Another bit in one of his sleeves. The crew loved it, and the captain himself got quite into it, bellowing louder each time.

He's probably just relieved to be getting his precious liquor back.

Quinn figured he might as well test out some of the equipment, as long as the crowd was hot, so he made a full show of it. He made things around the ship appear and disappear. He put a dagger through a flask of brandy without leaving a mark or spilling any of it. All of the equipment that he and the engineers scrupulously designed performed without a hitch.

He wanted something impressive for the finale, not a sleight of hand trick but a true illusion. This had been the most delicate bit of business, because he'd had to make surreptitious preparations on the ship. Now he faced the crowd, and felt their rapt attention on him.

“So now we've come to the end of the show, and I have one last trick for you,” he said. He lowered his voice a little, made it serious. “I want to thank you all for your help on this voyage, and more importantly, for your
discretion
. The less you wag your tongues about us when we come into port, the more likely we'll have success. So thank you, in advance.”

You could have heard a pin drop, while the crew pondered this. Quinn took his position near the back of the stage, against the mast. Dusk had fallen, and at his request they'd not lit any of the whale-­oil lanterns in the middle of the ship. A bit of fuzzy vision was required.

“It's said that a man at sea lives his life for a few little moments. A special sunrise, a quiet breeze, maybe even a liquor-­induced hallucination.”

He nodded vaguely in Legato's direction to the general amusement of the crowd. “For my last illusion, I'd like to give one of those moments. To each of you. In honor of the Valteroni Prime.”

He slid the elemental projector into the palm of a hidden hand, found the button he needed. He leaned back, spread his arms out.

The jet of liquid was soundless, and invisible to those on the deck below. So was the tiny apparatus he'd hidden on the mast overhead, a funnel with amplifying microfluidics. Into the funnel it went, through a tube, and then out hundreds of specially drilled holes. Tiny droplets of it spilled down to patter on the ship's deck. Everyone looked at the sky, eyes wide and mouths open in wonder. This was the moment Quinn savored most, when a performance really took the crowd by surprise.

He held out the metal cup, catching enough of the droplets to make a sip. “Cheers, Captain!” he called, and he drank. Then everyone realized the real twist of the performance, something that made it clear this was no well-­timed natural phenomenon. It wasn't water that fell.

It was Valteroni gold.

The applause was lively but short. Every sailor on deck scrambled for a drinking cup. Quinn remained on his little stage, enjoying the wonder and chaos. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be stuck here in this world. He could probably make a killing.

As long as someone doesn't kill me first.

T
he performance had cost him about a quarter of the elemental projector, and wasted a small fortune of Valteroni liquor, but it did two things. First, it drained most of the tension from the crew, gave them something else to talk about other than the gamble they took by sailing to Valteron. Second, it won him points with the rest of the team. Not quite as important as surviving the voyage, but nearly so.

Logan found him the next morning, while Quinn stood at the rail and watched the shape of the distant coastline roll by.

“Look at you, awake and sober,” he said.

“Well, I managed to get rid of most of Legato's stash in the performance,” Quinn said. “I'm a little worried he expects me to recover it at some point.”

“Just tell him it's the price of doing business.”

Quinn turned and made a survey of the deck. Legato was at the wheel himself. Kiara was there, too, chatting him up again. “I think the lieutenant might have a man-­crush,” he said.

Logan chuckled. “Don't count on it. She grills every ship captain she comes across. Hoping to hear some hint about the
Victoria
.”

“Oh, right,” Quinn said. “I'm surprised she hasn't written it off already. It's probably at the bottom of the ocean.”

“I wouldn't suggest that to her, if I were you,” Logan said.

“It's not like it didn't work out for Kiara. She got Relling's job, didn't she?”

Logan gave him a quizzical look. “You don't know, do you?”

“What?”

Logan muttered a curse. “Relling wasn't just her predecessor. She was Kiara's older sister.”

A
week of fair winds brought them south and east to the shores of Valteron. Nearly every ship they'd seen had been heading the other direction. Legato tried more than once to communicate with other captains using signal flags, but most of them were unresponsive. What little information he did get made him nervous: unrest in Valteron city, a blockade of the harbor, maybe even some armed conflicts.

Logan had made certain arrangements with Legato before their voyage began, ensuring that no passengers would be entered into the manifest. This was a cargo-­only ship, as far as the documents were concerned. It helped minimize the risk of Holt learning of their arrival. Chaudri was sure the man knew how to get the records from Valteroni port masters.

“I don't enjoy working with smugglers,” Legato had told Logan. “But it's part of the business. Not every shipment can be profitable once Valteroni taxes are involved.”

“Part of the business,” Logan agreed. “I'm sure you pay nearly all of the duties for your cargo. You're a good citizen of Valteron.”

Quinn was pretty sure he said it with a straight face.

A day's sail from Valteron city, Legato steered closer to land. The shoreline was pocked with coves and inlets, their backwaters hidden by the dense stands of mangrove-­like trees along the water. Legato ran up a certain set of flags, reefed the sails, and waited.

An hour later, a small ship slid out of some hidden cove. It was single-­masted, maybe half the length of Legato's vessel, but a good bit rougher around the edges. Trading that polished appearance, Quinn guessed, for quick sails and hidden compartments.

When the craft arrived, Legato invited its captain aboard for a drink and a hefty purse, while members of the smuggler crew helped Quinn, Bradley, Kiara, and Logan aboard. Legato's crewmen used the crane to move their horses into the other ship's hold.

The smuggler captain, who'd never offered a name, disguised his ship as a fishing vessel. Quinn wasn't sure how he did it, but the smell was certainly convincing. It threatened to gag him in the tiny closet where they'd stashed him, hoping that the trust and exchange of silver between the captains was enough to guarantee their safety. At least he was better off than Logan, who'd drawn the privilege of hiding in the bilge and didn't sound very happy about it over the comm link. Quinn thought he was somewhere off the hold, while Kiara was behind a false door in the captain's closet, and Chaudri in a sort of oubliette beneath a pile of grimy sail canvas.

He didn't even want to ask where the horses were.

In this fashion they made the two-­hour journey to Valteroni shores, a time Quinn intended to forget. Something told him the fishy smell might linger in the clothes and belongings for days, if not longer.

The smuggler captain offloaded his “catch” with their equipment and horses at a disused fishing dock on the southern coast. The structure was dilapidated but sound enough that when the smuggler's vessels bumped against it, there was only the faintest of shudders. Once ashore, Logan checked to be sure all of their equipment had made it, while Kiara thanked the captain for his silence with a heavy purse and quiet warning that made the man's face lose a bit of color.

Since it was near the planet's equator and bordered on three sides by the sea, most of Valteron knew no true winter. With mild weather came a clear sky. So while they'd come ashore under cover of darkness, Chaudri was able to take their rough position with a sextant.

Kiara consulted her map. “About a day's ride to Valteron City,” she said.

That proved an optimistic estimate. For while the evening was moderate, the weather was uncomfortably warm when the sun was out, especially as they got farther away from the coast. The horses tired more easily, and they had to constantly ride around putrid-­smelling marshes and water pits.

It beat the seasickness, though, and Quinn actually found he was glad to be back in the saddle atop his mare. He'd visited her in Legato's hold a few times with bits of fruit or grain, and tried to build up a little camaraderie. Between that and the steady practice, she actually started responding to some of his commands. Maybe one in three. He took what he could get.

At last they trudged out of the marsh to more solid ground in the fertile valley where Valteron City lay. They crested a ridge, and the land spilled out before them. They'd emerged on a sort of peninsula at the mouth of a massive bay. Across the water was a huge settlement, easily five times the size of Bayport. It hung beneath the specter of a charcoal-­dark cloud that stretched out over land and sea. A line of ships fanned out in a wide arc to enclose the bay. They were stouter and deeper-­hulled than Legato's, and had the look of warships. Between that line and the city wharves, burning or charred hulks littered the water. The wind changed then, coming toward them, carrying the heavy odor of acrid smoke.

“I'm no expert,” Quinn said. “But I think that's a bad sign.”

 

“Disappearance comes far easier than conjuration.”

—­
A
RT OF
I
LLUSION,
J
ULY 22

CHAPTER 10

CIVIL UNREST

T
he news out of Valteron City backed Quinn's hunch.

Logan and Kiara spent two hours talking to refugees that were streaming out of the city. Most of them told the same story. The Prime of Valteron had died unexpectedly more than a month ago. Within hours of his death, there were at least six candidates vying for the office. Each of them backed by a faction of supporters.

Cue the riots and looting. Two of the candidates died in the fighting. Another was poisoned. Two days passed before enough of the Valteroni fleet arrived to establish some semblance of order. A flotilla of merchant ships had even attempted to blockade the harbor, hoping to secure the office of the Prime for their candidate. Most were fired or sunk, for daring to impede navy vessels. Troops and officers came ashore to establish martial law until the new Prime was chosen.

“Hard to know if Holt made it in or not,” Logan said. “For all we know, he could be dead.”

“We'll make camp outside of the city,” Kiara said. “I don't want to be inside in case there's more violence, and they're not likely to welcome four non-­Valteroni strangers in any case.”

Logan found them an abandoned farmstead within walking distance of the city. What had happened to the family that lived there, no one could say. It looked as if they'd left in a hurry, and someone had tried in vain to fire the place. Kiara spent an hour giving out orders to make it defensible. They reinforced the front door, took out a wall, established a few escape routes. Then Logan set his infrared perimeter sensors with a control pad in the main room of the farmhouse.

He left at midday to trek into the city and see what he could find out. They saw the occasional refugee while he was gone. All of them kept their distance. The poor souls only now trudging out of Valteron City had lost too much already, and wanted no trouble.

Logan returned right at sunset. “There's good news and bad news,” he said. “Bad news is the military's got the city on lockdown. I had a bit of trouble talking my way in, especially without Mr. Magic Fingers to provide some razzle-­dazzle.”

“I offered to come along,” Quinn said. He fanned out the cards he'd been shuffling in one hand. “Hey, Logan, pick a card.”

“I'll pass,” Logan said.

“You said there was good news,” Kiara said.

“They picked a new Prime,” Logan said.

“Who was it?” Chaudri asked. “The merchant?”

“No idea. They're announcing tomorrow.”

“Any leads on our target?” Kiara asked.

“Not a whisper. I made a quick survey of the ships in the bay. There wasn't a coast-­cutter among them.”

“That city is massive,” Quinn said. “I don't know how easily we're going to find him.”

“If Dr. Holt is anywhere near Valteron City, he'll come for the announcement,” Chaudri said.

“Think so?” Logan asked.

“So many Alissians in one place, with the fate of a city-­state in the balance.” Chaudri's smile was faint, her eyes distant. “He wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Quinn was starting to wonder if there was more to the Chaudri-­Holt thing than there appeared.

The rough outline of a plan came together that night over dinner. Logan unrolled a black nylon satchel that Quinn hadn't seen before; that probably meant it had been stored in the small armory that he kept in his saddlebags. Inside were four glass-­and-­steel devices, each tipped with a narrow metal cylinder.

He took out one and folded down a lightweight aluminum handle. “These are pneumatic tranquilizer handguns,” he said. “CO
2
powered, effective range of about ten yards.” He opened a smaller metal case to reveal several glass darts tipped with hypodermic needles.

“What's in there?” Quinn asked.

“Genetically modified botulinum toxin,” Logan said. “Near-­complete paralysis for about two hours.”

“Botox?” Quinn asked.

“Not as long-­lasting, so don't get any ideas, baby face,” Logan said. “So much as scratch your finger with one of these and you're a rag doll. City like this, you'll end up naked in the gutter. If you're lucky.”

“You always paint a delightful picture,” Quinn said.

Kiara ignored their banter. “We'll sedate Holt and get him back to the farmhouse. Then Logan can arrange for transport on the quickest boat we can catch north.”

“We'll have no trouble finding one of those,” Chaudri said.

It occurred to Quinn that his time in Alissia was about half-­over. Once they grabbed Holt, Kiara would want to make a beeline for the gateway. The realization made him a little bit sad. More than he'd expected. And anxious, too. He was no closer to finding a bit of magic to bring home.

Then again, if anyone knew where to find magic here, it was Richard Holt.

T
he haze of smoke still hung over Valteron City, trapped by an overcast sky that never seemed to break. On foot, dressed in garb that showed no hint of wealth, they joined a steady throng of ­people headed toward the bay. Word had gotten around about the day's announcement, and suddenly the flow of humanity was reversed. More refugees than Quinn thought possible were trudging back home to hear their fate decided.

Logan made quiet inquiries of the other travelers while they rode. No one had heard much of the new Prime, but there was a hint of optimism on their faces, their mannerisms. A new person in charge—­whoever it was—­would be a return to normalcy.

“Keep alert, ­people,” Kiara said. “Holt could be anywhere. He recognizes Logan or Chaudri, and we're in trouble.”

“Do you think he knows we're after him still?” Quinn asked Chaudri.

“Dr. Holt never deals in certainties. He'll find it improbable because of all the chaos, but he'll have a plan ready just in case.”

Sounds like this guy would make a great magician.

The great influx of returning citizens allowed them to get into Valteron City without attracting too much attention. The gates were thrown wide open, and guards had long given up doing anything about the crowd other than move them along. Logan led them down a narrow avenue to the stable yard behind a small inn. The owner was a stout woman with her hair in a tight bun and two small children clinging to her woolen skirts. She saw Logan's face and smiled, almost in a motherly way.

“Lem, fetch some oats and water for the horses. And get your brother out of the hayloft to help you.”

Soon the boy and his near-­identical brother were running about, dodging the horses and filling feed troughs with hay and oats. A few more children made the mistake of revealing themselves in the hayloft and were quickly barked down by the inn's mistress to help out.

“Is Richard with you?” she asked. “I know he's got a taste for Caralissian ale, and we've a fresh keg.”

“Ah, no, sorry,” Logan said. “We're traveling separately. In fact, you haven't heard from him, have you?”

“Not for a ­couple of months. Who are your friends?”

Logan introduced them by first names only. “Everyone, meet Briannah. She's the mother I never had.”

“Don't go pouring honey on your words for me, Logan,” she said. It was an act, though. Her eyes were smiling. “At least you brought a tame animal this time, the gods be praised.”

She took the reins of Logan's horse and wrangled it back toward the stable. This was the animal that had been trying to bite Quinn the whole trip. A goddamn warhorse, and mean as hell—­
How the hell is it tame for her?
But it lacked either the time or the spirit to resist Briannah as she tucked it away back into a stall.

“You going to hear the announcement?” she asked.

“We think so, yes.”

“Best to get moving, then. The boys told me the plaza's getting crowded.”

They left the inn and joined the crowd filing toward the square, which was already packed. More ­people were steadily coming in. Quinn had been assigned the easternmost entrance, which was the least busy. He tried not to take offense at this; the others had known Holt personally. Logan pointed him in the right direction with a last warning to stay out of trouble.

Back in Vegas, the crowd was always changing. ­People came, gambled, usually lost, and went home. It was never the same faces in the theater, except for a few regulars. So Quinn never spent much time memorizing faces. He focused on the emotions and reactions of the crowd. That's what mattered most.

Even now, though he'd stared at a picture of Holt all night, he felt the details of the man's appearance slipping away, like water through cupped hands. If the man had any kind of disguise, Quinn would be less than useless at spotting him.

Probably should have mentioned that earlier. . .

The others checked in by comm link as soon as they were in position.

“I'm here,” Logan said. “God, it's crowded.”

“Gods,”
Chaudri corrected. “And I'm in position as well.”

Quinn scanned ­people's faces as they came in. There were almost too many to keep track of, but he did his best. The buzz of the crowd already in the square was distracting. There was a definite feel of energy to the place.

“Plenty of newcomers on the west gate. None of them look like Holt,” Kiara said. “There might be too many. I'm starting to second-­guess our plan.”

Quinn couldn't argue with her. Holt could be anywhere in Alissia. His file had said that he was a chess player. No wonder he'd been a move or two ahead of them at every turn.

The pitch of excitement in the crowd rose. Something was happening toward the front of the square, on the steps of the white marble amphitheater reserved for the use of the new Prime to address the public. Chaudri said the position came without pay, not that it mattered. The Prime of Valteron ruled supreme over the most powerful city-­state on the continent. No amount of wealth could buy that.

On the balcony of the impressive manse was a huge speaking-­cone of some kind. A small figure stepped to this and yelled, “Welcome!”

His voice boomed over the square; the crowd fell silent. Quinn glanced around and recognized the subtle designs of an architect who knew his acoustics. By shouting through the cone, the speaker on the balcony—­usually the Prime, in all likelihood—­could be heard by anyone in the square.

­People not already in the square started to hurry. It was a near-­stampede to be in place for the announcement.

“What a mess,” Logan muttered over the comm link.

“We're running out of time here,” Kiara said. “If we don't have eyes on Holt by the time they make the announcement, plan to meet back at the inn to regroup.”

Quinn took a moment to get his bearings so he could find the way back. He looked out into crowd of ­people . . . and there he was. Tall, bald, just past middle age, and striding purposefully into the crowd. His hood was up, and a brown cloak streamed out behind him. He carried himself with such purpose, such confidence. It could only be Richard Holt.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “I think I see him. Stand by.”

He hurried down from his vantage point, keeping an eye on the hooded man as best he could. The man's long strides weren't easy to catch up with, especially given the haste of the crowd. Quinn's palms were sweating; he wiped them on his pants and checked the hilt of the pneumatic pistol tucked inside his jacket. His finger brushed the trigger and he jerked the hand away quickly. If he accidentally shot himself with that thing, he'd blow the mission. And worse, Logan would never let him live it down.

The tall figure had come up against the press of ­people and fallen still. Quinn had a moment to catch up. He grabbed a shoulder, his hand ready to draw the pistol and fire. This was the moment.

He tapped him on the shoulder. “Richard?”

The man turned around, surprised, and his face was that of a stranger.

“Oh. S-­sorry,” Quinn stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Who did you think I was?” the man asked. His eyes nearly made Quinn take a step back they were so intense. Blue-­green, like the color of the ocean.

“No one. Just a friend I was looking for.”

“Richard Holt?” the man asked.

Quinn felt a surge of excitement. “You know him?”

“Rather well,” the man said. He gave Quinn a considering look. “You seem familiar.”

“No, I'm sure we never . . .” Quinn began. But the man had turned toward him, and his cloak fell open enough to reveal the bright blue sash beneath. “Uh, met,” he finished. He glanced from it to the near-­identical sash of his own costume. The thing Chaudri had insisted would help mark Alissian magic users. Could it be?

“Now I remember,” the man said, though his tone said he'd never quite forgotten. “You look like someone I've been sent to find. A man who claimed to be a magician.”

Uh-­oh. “No, that wasn't me,” Quinn said.

“You were never in Bayport.”

He hesitated a second too long. Missed that split-­second chance to lie. Where was his goddamn poker face when he needed it? He'd been away from Vegas too long. “No, I was . . . I just—­”

“Gods be good, you
are
him.” The man laughed. “Oh, this is too rich.”

“I think there's been a mistake,” Quinn said. “I'll be on my way now.”

The man whispered a word. And Quinn's boots stuck to the ground as if glued there. And the crowd parted naturally around both of them, never looking, as if they didn't see them at all.

“Mayday,” Quinn said. “Mayday, mayday.”

The comm link was quiet. He couldn't even hear the static.