Nicco smiled. She’d put herself in danger without even realising it, but Nicco couldn’t help laughing.
“Hey, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “I’m just sympathising with the poor sod. I’ll bet you gave him a right earful...”
“Salarum!”
Nicco turned in the direction of the shout, immediately tense and ready to run. Recent events had made him jumpy.
With a face like thunder, Sergeant Patulam strode over toward them.
“Hello, sergeant,” said Nicco. “How’s that missing necklace case going?”
The sergeant wagged a finger in his face. “Don’t come the smartarse with me, Salarum. I saw what happened over there. The Hurrundan police contacted me as soon as your fingerprints went in the system. And don’t think I didn’t see your ugly mug in the crowd during that news stream.”
Nicco laughed. “Yeah, talk about an eventful vacation. Wrongfully arrested, then caught up in two revolutions. What are the odds?”
Patulam leaned in close and whispered in Nicco’s ear. “You may think you’re safe, but know this: Bazhanka can’t buy me off.” He stood up straight and scowled at Nicco. “One day, Salarum. One day people will start talking and you’ll come a cropper. When you do, I’ll be there with a nice pair of silver bracelets for you.” He turned on his heel and left.
Tabby shrugged. “What is he, supercop or something?”
Nicco smiled. “Or something, yeah. Don’t worry about it.” He took Tabby’s hand in his and started walking. “So are we all right?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “That depends. How are you going to make it up to me?”
Nicco saw a flower seller out the corner of his eye, a middle-aged man in shabby clothes carrying bouquets in the crook of his arm. The man seemed to see Nicco at the same time, and walked over to intercept them.
“Flowers for the lady, sir?” said the man, smiling. “A selection from all over Turith and beyond, just ten lire a bouquet, excellent value. May I recommend the Hirvanian yelloweye here, a lovely complement to the lady’s eyes if I may say so. Very rare but currently seasonal in these winters...”
“All right, all right,” interrupted Nicco. “Watery saints, you don’t need to give me the full spiel. Go on, I’ll have the yelloweye.”
The flower seller pulled out a bouquet of three of the vivid yellow flowers.
Nicco reached for his wallet, then stopped. “I don’t suppose you take cards...?”
The flower seller laughed. “No, sir, I do not. Cash, if you please.”
Nicco looked sheepish. “I’ve just stepped off the airship, all I’ve got is foreign money.”
“No problem at all, sir. I take lire, Hurrundan rakki, even Praalian snowcaps if that’s what you have. One learns to be adaptable, in my line of work.”
Nicco produced a handful of rakki and dropped them in the flower seller’s open hand. “Is that enough?”
The man stared at the coins in amazement. “This is ten times what I asked for, sir. Please, take...”
But Nicco held up his hand to silence the man. “Take it. Consider yourself tipped.” He took the bouquet and handed it to Tabby. She accepted the flowers with a smile and sniffed them.
“Lovely,” she said.
The flower seller produced a card and pressed it into her hand. “Please, miss, do call again. You have very good taste in men.”
She giggled and took Nicco’s arm, letting him walk her away. “Oh, look,” she said, showing Nicco the card. “He’s got a cell number. You’d think he could afford some better clothes in that case, wouldn’t you? Hasn’t put his name on it, mind. It doesn’t even say he’s a flower seller. How are you supposed to remember it’s his card? Silly man.”
She handed the card to Nicco to illustrate her point. The only text on the card was a phone number on the front side. But it was what was printed above the number—instead of a name or company—that stopped him in his tracks.
It was a symbol, a pattern of lines and curves. A symbol Nicco himself could draw from memory. The same symbol that was etched on the glass teardrop pendant he wore around his neck.
Was this some kind of sick joke? Were the Varnian military keeping tabs on him? He glanced back over his shoulder, but the flower seller was nowhere to be seen.
“Yeah,” he said, shoving the card into his pocket. “Silly man. Come on, let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THAT NIGHT, AS Tabby lay sleeping in her bed at Madame Zentra’s, Nicco paced around the room and stared at the card.
What did it mean? He tried to remember what the flower seller looked like, but Nicco had been so busy thinking about how to make it up with Tabby, and flustering about with the wrong currency, that he hadn’t really paid attention. Middle-aged, average height, average build, with a scraggy greying beard... Just like every other street vendor and hobo in Azbatha. Nothing about the man stood out as distinguished or unusual. Expect the card Nicco now held in his hands.
One learns to be adaptable, in my line of work.
In Nicco’s other hand was his phone. He stared at it, then back at the card.
Come on, just call it. It’s probably nothing. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps. Perhaps not.
He dialled the number.
The other end of the line rang. Two rings. Three rings. It’s nothing. He’s asleep on a park bench somewhere, wondering why some idiot is trying to order a bunch of flowers at two in the morning. You bloody fool.
Just as Nicco was about to hang up, the ringing stopped. “Hello?” he said. “Look, if this is some kind of prank...”
The voice at the other end of the line was male, deep and calm.
“Hello, son. It seems you’ve made quite a name for yourself...”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Antony Johnston is a New York Times bestselling graphic novellist, author and games writer with more than fifty published titles, including The Coldest City, which became the hit movie Atomic Blonde starring Charlize Theron. His epic series Wasteland is one of only a handful of such longform achievements in comics, and his first video game, Dead Space, redefined a genre. He lives and works in England.
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