The Rogue Retrieval (8 page)

“Nothing,” she said.

“He must have some way to circumvent the isotope.” Logan wouldn't put it past him. Holt had been two or three moves ahead since the day he'd left. Probably before that.

“At least we know where he's headed.”

“I'm worried about that, though,” Logan said. “He's too smart to let something slip by accident.”

“We catch up to him before he crosses the border, and it doesn't really matter what he's planned,” Kiara said.

Logan didn't think it was that simple. Holt had never done anything half-­ass. “Hope you're right. I'm tired of dancing for him.”
Just as I'm tired of this horse, of this world, and of being away from my girls.

“Then we should try to get ahead of him. What's the fastest way south?”

“Probably by sea, this time of year. We might even beat him to Valteron.” If that's where he was truly headed.

“For all we know, he's done the same,” Kiara said.

“Might as well check the closest port city, then,” Logan said.

“Very well,” Kiara said. “You know the one I want, Logan. Take the lead.”

“Roger.” He nudged his mount into the lead and began whistling a sea chantey. Bradley rode up to take his place.

“What's got him so excited?” he could hear Bradley ask.

“The thing that enlisted men live for, and every officer dreads most,” Kiara said. “Shore leave.”

He couldn't help but grin.

 

“If we spent half as much on cultural research as we did security, we'd know the Alissian world as well as we do our own.”

—­
R
.
H
OLT,
“I
NVESTMENT IN
A
LISSIA
”

CHAPTER 7

CAPTAINS

S
even days of hard riding put them in smelling distance of the ocean. The mountain peaks had steadily dropped behind them, fading at last into the indistinct clouds of a bruised-­gray sky. According to Chaudri, ninety percent of Kestani lived within ten or twenty leagues of one of the borders, be it the mountains, the seacoast, or the capital city near the borders with Tion and Caralis.

Now they rode into a steady southern breeze that carried the hint of brine, and laid eyes on the largest Alissian settlement Quinn had seen yet.

“Bayport,” Chaudri said. “Population of about ten thousand, give or take a few depending on the trading fleet and naval presence.”

The port city and the bay beyond looked like an old painting of Hong Kong. Wooden buildings piled on one another amid a sea of thatch-­roof houses, more than Quinn could count. Beyond them was an even more crowded harbor, first with rowboats and single-­masted sailcraft, then larger junks and eventually the traders: deep-­hulled ships with two or three masts.

Chaudri used a pair of compact binoculars to inspect the flags and sigils at their masts. “Kestani and Valteroni craft for the most part,” she said. “I see a few Caralissian traders, too. There's a Pirean ship—­they're a long way from home. If Holt came here, he could catch a ride anywhere.”

“He could still be down there, waiting to catch a ride,” Logan said.

Kiara checked the radioisotope scanner. The look on her face was frustration, as best Quinn could gauge. He was still trying to work out her tells.

“I don't like going into a crowded city, but it's probably worth a look,” she said.

“I know a stable where we can stash the horses,” Logan said.

“Good,” she said. “We'll need to find the port master, and then we make a round of the captain's taverns along the waterfront. If Holt passed through, someone might remember him.”

They reached the city limits in late afternoon, when the setting sun made black skeletons of the masts in the harbor.

“Watch your purses and saddlebags,” Logan said. “It tends to get a bit crowded in here.”

The city had no wall, which meant no gate—­apparently the Kestani felt comfortable with few land defenses here because of the ships. A steady flow of travelers entered the city from several directions at once, most of them on foot. The occasional wagon or horse cart rumbled past, loaded with tubers or livestock or materials Quinn didn't even recognize.

Most of the ­people were Kestani; he could tell by a quick glance because of the colorful garb. There was no wrong answer when it came to colors or styles for Kestani dress. Neon green and bright orange? No problem. Bright blue and rich purple? Go ahead. Somehow the Kestani made it all work. He felt drably attired by comparison, a plain raven in a flock of tropical birds.

Eventually they were forced to walk the horses, as Alissians pressed around them in the narrow streets of the port city. Quinn looked out across the ­people and the cottages and marveled at how
many
of them there were. He had been in big cities—­hell, Vegas could have ten times this number on the Strip alone—­but it wasn't the same. Bayport was a city bursting at the seams. The layout of the city, the garb, the chatter of those passing by, emphasized how much this world differed from his own. They passed the open door of a squat stone building where a wave of heat washed out, along with the steady ring of hammer on metal. A blacksmith. Quinn shook his head. Unbelievable.

Chaudri was getting into her element. She strolled casually along, chatting with Alissians as they passed, asking questions, even bargaining with a street vendor for some mystery-­meat concoction served hot off a heated iron brazier. Were she not following Quinn's horse, the woman would probably have lost herself in the crowd and not even cared.

Logan finally turned them away from one of the main avenues and down a side street to a high stockade fence. He banged on it with an armored fist until a boy unlatched the door to let them in. The fence encircled what seemed to be a sort of horse parking lot. It had a ­couple of guards, several hitching posts, and a smell that Quinn could only describe as authentic. Bits of hay and manure were scattered about the entrance to a small stable crowded with pack animals, cart horses, and a few riding mounts.

“Nice little parking lot,” Quinn said.

“You're looking at one of the most profitable businesses in port cities,” Chaudri said.

“Horse and buggy storage,” Quinn said. He was dubious.

“They charge to store the horses, and then they rent them out during the day,” Chaudri said. “Not ours, of course.”

“We pay extra, I'm guessing,” Quinn said.

“They sell the manure, too. Makes for decent fertilizer.”

Quinn tried to keep his breathing shallow. “I'd hate to live downwind.”

Chaudri gave a shrug. “Smells like money to me.” Logan had finished hobbling the horses, then lashing the swords and bows up in canvas.
Probably a good idea to keep those away from prying eyes.
He came over to Quinn and Chaudri, and tucked a carbon dagger into each of their boots. “This is a port city. Keep your wits about you,” he said.

Quinn feigned surprise. “So Bayport's a port city? Get outta here.”

Logan glared as Quinn hurried past.

On the way out, Kiara pressed a ­couple of coins into the boy's hand for an extra careful watch over their mounts and saddlebags. They regrouped outside the gate, which the boy closed and barred behind them.

Kiara pulled up a rough map of the city. “The port master's office is on the north end of the harbor. Most of the captain's bars will be on the south.”

“Have to split up to cover them all,” Logan said.

“Chaudri and I will try the port master,” Kiara said.

Quinn rubbed his hands together. “I guess Logan and I are hitting the bars, then.”

“For information
only
,” Kiara said.

Quinn didn't try to hide the disappointment from his face. He realized he could really use a drink.

“Ah, perhaps they could be permitted a bit of indulgence, Lieutenant,” Chaudri said. “In the name of field research.”

She sighed. “Very well. But keep it in moderation.”

They arranged to meet that evening at an inn called the Lost Lady. Comm units were checked, but Kiara wanted radio silence unless there was an emergency. She and Chaudri set out to track down the port master, whose offices were at the south end of the city. Logan and Quinn made right for the waterfront.

“Captains love to talk, but they'll want something in return,” Logan said.

“I could give a little performance,” Quinn said.

Logan shook his head. “That will draw attention. We'll just spread some coin around, buy a few drinks.”

“So once again I'm absolutely useless here.”

“That's what I've been trying to say all along.”

“As long as we're on the same page.”

Logan almost smiled at that as he dug out a brown leather purse and handed it over. Quinn shook out a handful of heavy round coins into his hand. Some gold, some silver. They had the heft of value to them, like premium poker chips. “Good. I could use a drink.”

“You're buying, not drinking.”

“Trust me, I know how to work a crowd.”

“This isn't Vegas.”

Quinn stepped right into a fresh pile of horse manure. He grimaced. “I'm well aware of that.”

The streets grew crowded as they neared the waterfront, and carried the potent smells of brine and urine. The ­people, too, were more downtrodden and ramshackle. Funny that he'd started thinking of them that way. They just looked
human
. Even the outfits didn't seem odd any longer. Fewer of the Kestani bright colors were visible here; loose shirts of what appeared to be sail canvas were far more common. Nearly everyone walked with the rolling swagger of lifetime sailors.

“Most of them are on shore leave,” Logan said, as if hearing his thoughts. “A day or two of drinking, gambling, and other vices until their pay is gone. The captains will be holed up in one of these drinking parlors.”

“How will I know what a ship captain looks like?” Quinn asked.

“Oh, you'll know.”

T
he first drinking parlor was a dive for certain. It was a squarish room, poorly lit by round lamps that flickered and gave off oily smoke. A haze hung over the bar, a wooden monstrosity carved to resemble the hull of a ship. A handful of men lounged in high-­backed chairs beside it. They were cleaner and more expensively attired than anyone Quinn had seen so far. There were other patrons in the room, some drinking at low tables, others playing cards, but these men were the centerpiece.

Mostly because of the hats they wore. These were made of crushed velvet or a similar material, broad-­rimmed, and studded with tropical feathers.

“Oh my God, it's the cast of
Don Quixote
,” Quinn whispered.

Logan laughed. “Told you,” he said. “Now, put your ­people skills to work and find out if anyone's seen Holt.”

Quinn strolled up to the end of the bar, digging a few silver coins from his purse as he did. The man on the end had a dark mustache and goatee; his red cap had a shockingly bright purple feather. Like the other captains, he appeared to have been drinking and smoking for most of the day. Quinn held out a silver coin in the palm of his hand.

“Buy you a drink, Captain?”

The captain looked Quinn up and down, hardly glancing at the coin. “That won't buy what I'm drinking.”

Quinn had figured as much. “Ah, sorry. Of course.” He snapped his fingers, then spread them wide; now there were two coins in the hand. “Perhaps this is better. No, on second thought—­” Another snap, another coin appeared. He could do this all day.

“Now you have my attention,” the captain said. “Landorian ale.” He gestured at a small, ornate cask on a shelf behind the bar. “Probably cheaper to melt silver down and drink it, but I just can't help myself.”

“Let's make it two, then,” Quinn said. He got the barkeeper's attention and ordered two of the ales.

“You're not a seaman, I can see that,” the captain said. “Not Kestani, either. I'd wager my beard on it.”

The barkeeper set two ales in front of them in heavy, cloudy glass mugs. Then he made Quinn's coins vanish as quickly as any magician could.

“I'm a traveling performer,” Quinn said, which was essentially true. He dipped a finger in the foam of his glass and traced it around the rim. “A trick here.” He tilted the glass to a precarious angle so that the ale threatened to spill over the rim. Then he pulled his hands away, and the glass held fast. “A trick there.”

The captain raised an eyebrow over his ale. “Not bad. Then again, I've seen the real thing.”

He had to stop himself from a sharp intake of breath. “You've met a magician.”

“A ­couple of them, as it were.”

At last, a hint of the real reason he'd come. The true promise of Alissia. “Maybe I know them.”

“Nah, this was years ago.”

Damn. Quinn took his glass and had a sip. Carefully. He sniffed appreciatively and raised his glass. “You've good taste, Captain.”

“I've made it my business to try every ale the city-­states have to offer. The farther away they're from, the better they taste. Without exception.”

“Not a bad way to get along,” Quinn said. “Is yours a trading vessel, then?”

“Aye. Three-­masted Kestani sloop.”

“Mmm,” Quinn said, stroking his chin appreciatively, though he had no idea what the man was talking about. “Sounds like a fine rig. You ever take passengers?”

“On occasion, if the price is right. They take up room I'd otherwise use for cargo. Doesn't come cheap.”

“A friend of mine was looking for a ride down to Valteron. I wondered if he'd found a berth. Older fellow, goes by Richard?”

“Not with me, though I can't speak for the other captains. Did you say Valteron?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure your friend wants to go there right now.”

“Why not?”

The captain drained his ale with a flourish. “That was a fine drink.”

“Have another. This time, you're buying,” Quinn said. He reached into the captain's hat and found three more silver coins somewhere in the vicinity of the outrageous purple feather.

“You're a sly one,” said the captain. “Very well. Another ale.”

The barkeep was already pouring it from the cask on the shelf. He slid it over, took the coins, and was gone again. A perfect performance, as far as Quinn was concerned. Everything about the captain's bar was that way. He really should look into the whole captaining thing.

The captain took a sip of his new ale, licked his lips. He leaned close. “Truth be told, I was supposed to head to Valteron with this cargo. Now I'm looking for a different port to take it to instead. At a loss.”

“Are things that bad?” Quinn asked. He took another sip of the ale, and had to remind himself to slow down.

“Hard to know what's going, now that the Prime is dead.”

Quinn nearly choked on his ale.
That sure as hell wasn't covered in my mission briefings.
“I'm sorry, did you say—­”

“Dead.”

“I hadn't heard,” Quinn said. He wished Chaudri were here, to weigh in on the implications. “I didn't think he was terribly old.” In fairness, he didn't know a thing about the Prime, except that he ruled Valteron.