The Rogue Retrieval

by Dan Koboldt

  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.”

  Half 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.”

  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 fa
ced 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.

  The 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.”

  —­ART OF ILLUSION, JULY 22

  CHAPTER 10

  CIVIL UNREST

  The 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.”