The Rogue Retrieval

by Dan Koboldt

  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. “CO2 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.

  The 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 th
ey 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.

  “Let me go. Help!” Quinn shouted. But no one in the crowd around seemed to hear him. He didn’t dare draw his sword, or try the elemental projector. He could reach the pack of cards in his sleeve. That was about it.

  “Impersonating a magician is a serious crime, as I’m sure you know.”

  Maybe he could talk his way out of this. “Who says I’m not one?” Quinn asked.

  “A fair point.” The bald magician pressed a finger to Quinn’s temples and held him fast. His touch was like ice. A chill flowed down from his hands. It felt like he was slowly freezing Quinn to death from the outside in. His face went still, his ears numb, his shoulders quivered.

  Some part of him fought this. Deep in his gut he clung to the only warmth he had. Almost like a hot meal in the stomach, but deeper. The cold from the magician’s fingers pressed against it. Did it recoil, even? Yes. Quinn found the source of it and pushed. Then the heat was emanating outward, shoving back against the cold. Surging into his shoulders, his face. The balding man’s eyes widened. His arms were flung away. He stumbled a step backward and stared.

  “Gods,” he whispered. “How?”

  Quinn wasn’t sure himself, but he had this guy on the ropes and intended to take advantage. “Release me, and I’ll tell you.”

  But the man only moved closer to him, and threw a cloaked arm over his shoulders.

  “Wait,” Quinn said. “What are you doing?”

  The magician ignored him. He looked down, muttered a command. Quinn felt a surge of panic—­or rather, another surge of panic—­and started to struggle, but the magician’s arm was like stone. He couldn’t break his grip. He worked a few cards out of the pack and let them fall. Then he tugged the jack of spades out enough that he could press his thumb down on the switch. Not that he thought Thorisson could help, but he was desperate.

  The plaza flickered around him. The magician’s arm held him like it was made of steel. A light flashed, blinding him.

  He fell into darkness.

  “Bradley, report,” Logan said. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to start moving the second he got confirmation. But Bradley hadn’t said a word after “Stand by.”

  On the marble steps, a man’s voice boomed through the speaker. “Our troubles are over!”

  “That’s Admiral Blackwell,” Kiara said. She sounded surprised. “Top commander of the Valteroni fleet. They’re certainly bringing out the big guns for this one.”

  “Maybe he’s taking over,” Logan said. It wouldn’t be the worst thing. This dump of a city could use a leader with some discipline.

  “The Prime must be a civilian,” Chaudri said. “It’s one of the few restrictions.”

  Still no word from Bradley, but he’d probably forgotten to unmute his comm link. In the background, Blackwell was speaking ponderously about all that Valteron had lost in the days of unrest, the dead, the damages.

  “All of that is behind us, my fellow citizens,” the admiral said. “Leading us into the future is a man that many of you know. Someone who was born here. Who understands what Valteron needs. A man who will ensure that we remain the greatest power in Alissia for another century!”

  “This is quite an introduction,” Chaudri sai
d.

  “Let me delay no more. We have suffered long enough.” Blackwell paused for effect here.

  He’s already contradicting himself.

  Chaudri must have had a flicker of insight; her voice came over the comm link. “Oh my God!” She’d even forgotten to make it plural.

  Something in her tone gave Logan a feeling of dread. He connected the dots then. A day late, as usual.

  “The new Prime of Valteron,” the admiral boomed. “Richard Holt!”

  For the first time since Logan had known her, the lieutenant had no words. Either that or she’d fainted, but he didn’t consider that very likely.

  “All right, everyone,” Logan said. “Let’s regroup at the inn. Get there as quick as you can.”

  Holt’s voice came over the amplifier and it fixed him to where he stood.

  ­“People of Valteron,” Holt said.

  Chaudri gave a soft gasp.

  “Jesus,” Logan whispered. It was him, all right. He’d know that voice anywhere.

  “All of us are orphans,” Holt said. “My predecessor, the former Prime, was like a father to us. Without him we’ve been like a ship without anchor.”

  Not a bad metaphor for these ­people, Logan had to admit.

  “Consider the course righted. There are days of change ahead. Days of growth and prosperity like none that Valteron has ever known. I have seen things in our future. Ships that move without sails. New sources of heat. Advanced weapons for the admiral and his fine navy.”

  Logan sighed. He hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it did.

  “Go back to your homes, your shops,” Holt was saying. “The admiral has been kind enough to reopen the harbor, starting tomorrow.”

  Men in feather caps cheered. The more shabbily dressed seamen muttered curses.

  Logan didn’t wait to hear the rest. He began shouldering his way toward the exit. Kiara and Chaudri were silent across the comm link. He let the flow of Alissians carry him out of the square. They were jubilant, most of them. Excited about a new future, and talking about Holt as if they knew him well. Funny how just yesterday no one had ever heard of him.