The Rogue Retrieval (9 page)

“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.”

—­
A
RT
OF
I
LLUSION,
A
PRIL 1

CHAPTER 8

STREET MAGIC

“S
hit, 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.

W
here 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.

The wooden stools along the bar were about two-­thirds full, so they claimed a pair and sat down. The marble was cold to the touch, almost like ice.

Like the captains he'd seen in other drinking rooms, the men and women at the bar wore hats with overlarge feathers on them; it seemed to be a mark of captainship in this part of Alissia. The only difference was that where the others' feathers were simply dyed to their obnoxious hues, those worn in the House of Valteron were naturally beautiful. Some resembled the peacock feathers from Earth, others surely came from birds unlike Quinn had ever seen. Regardless, they all spoke to a certain exotic origin.

A good illusionist could read faces and body language as most ­people can read billboards. Those skills seemed to translate fairly well to Alissians, though as a general rule they seemed more guarded with their emotions. Even so, Quinn picked up a universal vibe among the Valteroni captains drinking at the bar. No matter how well they tried to hide it.

“They're nervous,” Quinn said quietly.

“How do you know?” Logan asked.

“I can just tell.”

“Was it here before, or did they become that way when we entered?”

“Not sure. I was too busy being frisked by the doorman.”

“And ogling the ladies.”

“I was trying to get a read on them, too.”

“I bet.”

Quinn shrugged, and made another surreptitious look about the bar. The man on Quinn's right had the look of a ship captain.

Time to drum up a little information.

“Evening, Captain,” Quinn said.

The man gave him a slight nod. His silk-­and-­leather jacket was studded with silver thread and decorative jewels; the feather in his soft gray hat looked like that of a pheasant: brown with black stripes and red near the tip. Quinn resisted a sudden, likely suicidal urge to reach out and touch it.

The bartender, an attractive brunette in a spotless white apron, came over to take their order. Quinn tried valiantly to remember what he could about the liquor from Chaudri's briefings. Now was not the moment to come off as a hayseed.

“What can I get for you, gentlemen?” she asked.

“Something off the dark end,” Logan said.

“How about you, handsome?” she asked Quinn.

Quinn felt his cheeks heating, but a moment of inspiration came. “Gold and cold,” he said casually, as if he'd ordered it a hundred times before.

She smiled; he knew he'd won a point or two with that one. From beneath the bar she produced a delicate glass tumbler for Logan, identical to the others being sipped at along the bar. She poured three fingers of dark liquor the color of motor oil into it. That would be Logan's drink, and it suited him.