‘Time for a new perfume, Jez,’ Frey quipped.
‘I do have a way with animals, don’t I?’ she said, looking mildly put out.
Quail’s house was a marked contrast to the dirty streets that had led to it. The floor and walls were tiled in black granite. Thick rugs had been laid underfoot.
Coiled-brass motifs ran along the walls towards two curving staircases. Between the staircases was a large and complicated timepiece. It was a combination of clock and calendar, fashioned in copper and bronze and gold. Behind the hands were rotating discs with symbols for all ten months of the year and each of the ten days of the week. Frey was slightly relieved to see that the calendar read: Queensday Thirdweek, Howl’s Batten—the last day of the month. He’d not been certain he had the date right until now.
‘Just you,’ said Codge, motioning up the stairs and looking at Frey. Frey shucked off his slicker and handed it to Pinn, who took it absently. The young pilot’s attention had been snared by the four beautiful, seductively dressed women who had appeared in one of the doorways to observe the newcomers. They giggled and smiled at Frey as he headed for the stairs. He gave them a gallant bow, then took the hand of the foremost to kiss.
‘You can butter up the whores later. The boss is waiting,’ Codge called. One of the women pooched out her lip at him, then favoured Frey with a dirty smirk.
‘He’ll have to come down again, though, won’t he?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Good evening, ladies,’ said Frey. ‘I’m sure my friend over there would love to entertain you until I return.’
Pinn licked his palm, smoothed down the little thatch of hair atop his potato-like head, and put on his best nonchalant pose. The whores eyed him, unimpressed.
‘We’ll wait.’
‘Frey!’ said Xandian Quail, as the captain entered the study. ‘Dramatically late, I see. I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Far as I’m concerned, a margin for error is just wasted space,’ Frey said, then shook hands with a hearty camaraderie far above what he actually felt for the man. Quail offered a glass of wine and did a magnificent job of not noticing the trail of muddy footprints that Frey had brought in with him.
Frey sat down and admired the room while Quail poured the drinks. The front of Quail’s desk was carved in the likeness of a huge Cloud Eagle, stern and impressive. An ornate and valuable brass barometer hung behind it, the arrow pointing firmly towards RAIN. The windows had complicated patterned bars set on the outside, for security and decoration alike. A black iron candelabra hung from the ceiling, bulbs glowing dimly with electric power. The walls were panelled in mahogany and lined with books. Frey read some of the titles, but didn’t recognise any. It was hardly a surprise. He rarely read anything more complicated than the sensationalist broadsheets they sold in the cities.
Quail gave Frey a crystal glass of rich red wine, then sat opposite him with a glass of his own. He’d probably been handsome once, but no longer. A fiery crash in a fighter craft had seen to that. Now half his bald head was puckered with scar tissue, and there was a small metal plate visible on one side of his skull. A brassy orb sat in the socket where his left eye should have been, and his left arm was entirely mechanical.
In spite of this, he carried himself like an aristocrat, and dressed like one too. He wore a brocaded black jacket with a stiff collar and his patent leather shoes shone. Wet, sweaty and dishevelled, Frey was unimpressive by comparison.
‘I’m glad you made it,’ said Quail. ‘Another day and I’d have offered my proposition elsewhere. Time is a factor.’
‘I just came to hear what you have to say,’ said Frey. ‘Make your pitch.’
‘I have a job for you.’
‘I know your rates,’ Frey said. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘I’m not selling the information. This one’s for free.’
Frey sipped his wine and studied the other man.
‘I thought whispermongers always stayed neutral,’ Frey said.
‘Those are the rules,’ said Quail. He looked down at his mechanical hand and flexed the fingers thoughtfully. ‘You don’t get involved, you don’t take sides, you never reveal your sources or your clients. Just hard information, bought and sold. You trade secrets but you never take advantage of them.’
‘And you certainly don’t offer jobs.’
‘With what we know, you think we’re never tempted? We’re only human, after all.’ Quail smiled. ‘That’s why we’re very particular about who we use. It wouldn’t be good for our profession if it were known that we occasionally indulge in a little self-interest.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘There’s a barque out of Samarla, heading for Thesk. The Ace of Skulls. Minimum escort, no firepower. They want to keep things low-key, like it’s just another freight run. They don’t want attention. From pirates or the Navy.’
The Ace of Skulls. As a keen player of the game of Rake, Frey didn’t miss its significance. The Ace of Skulls was the most important card in the game. ‘What are they carrying?’
‘Among other things, a chest of gems. Uncut gems, bound for a Jeweller’s Guild consortium in the capital. They cut a deal with a mining company across the border, and they’re flying them back in secret to avoid the Coalition taxes. The profit margin would be huge.’
‘If they got there.’
‘If they got there. But they won’t. Because you’ll bring those gems to me.’
‘Why trust me? Why wouldn’t I head for the hills with my new-found riches?’
‘Because you’d be a fool to try it. I know about you, Frey. You don’t have the contacts or the experience to fence them. You’ve no idea how dangerous that kind of wealth can be. Even if you didn’t get your throat slit trying to sell them, you’d be ripped off.’
‘So what do you propose as payment?’
‘Fifty thousand ducats. Flat fee, non-negotiable, paid upon delivery of the gems to me.’
Frey’s throat went dry. Fifty thousand. He couldn’t possibly have heard that right.
‘You did just say fifty thousand ducats, didn’t you?’
‘It’s a better offer than you’ll get trying to sell them yourself, and the deal will be straightforward and safe. I’m rather hoping it will help you avoid temptation.’
‘How much is the chest worth?’
‘Considerably more, once the gems are cut. But that doesn’t concern you.’
‘Let me get this straight. You said fifty thousand ducats?’
‘On delivery.’
Frey drained his wine in a gulp.
‘More wine?’ Quail offered politely.
‘Please,’ Frey rasped, holding out his glass.
Fifty thousand ducats. It was a colossal amount of money. More than enough riches to live in luxury for the rest of his days, even after he’d cut the others their share. If he cut them a share, he corrected himself.
No, don’t think about that yet. You just need to decide if this really is too good to be true.
His heart pounded in his chest, and his skin felt cold. The opportunity of a lifetime. He wasn’t stupid enough to think it came without a catch. He just couldn’t see it yet.
Ever since he became a freebooter he’d stuck to one hazy and ill-defined rule. Keep it small-time. Ambition got people killed. They reached too far and got their hands bitten off. He’d seen it happen time and again: bright-eyed young captains, eager to make a name for themselves, chewed up in the schemes of businessmen and pirates. The big-money games were run by the real bad men. If you wanted to play in that league, you had to be ready for a whole new level of viciousness.
And then there was the Navy. They didn’t concern themselves with the small-time operators, but once you made a reputation they’d take an interest. And if there was one thing worse than the backstabbing scum-sacks that infested criminal high society, it was the Navy.
Frey wasn’t rich. What money he made was usually gambled away or spent on drink or women.
Sometimes it was a struggle just to keep craft and crew together. But he was beholden to no one, and that was the way he liked it. Nobody pulled his strings. It was what he told himself whenever money was tight and things looked bad.
At least I’m free, he thought. At least there’s that.
In the murky world of bottom-feeders, Frey could count himself among the larger fishes, simply by dint of smarts. The world was full of morons and victims. Frey was a cut above, and he was comfortable there. He knew his level, and he knew what happened when people overestimated themselves.
But it was one job. Fifty thousand ducats. A life of appalling, obnoxious luxury staring him in the face.
‘Why me?’ he asked as Quail refilled his glass. ‘I must have dealt with you, what, three times?’
‘Yes,’ said Quail, settling again. ‘You sold me a few titbits. Never bought anything.’
‘Never could afford it.’
‘That’s one point in your favour,’ he said. ‘We’re barely acquainted. The scantest of links between us. I couldn’t risk offering this opportunity to most of my clients. My relationship with them is too well known.’ He leaned forwards across the desk, clasping his hands together, meshing metal fingers with flesh. ‘Make no mistake, if this operation goes bad, I don’t know you, and you never heard about those gems from me. I will not allow this to be traced back here. I have to protect myself.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m used to people pretending they don’t know me. Why else?’
‘Because fifty thousand ducats is an absurd amount of money to you and I believe it will keep you loyal. Because you’re too small-time to fence those gems for yourself, and you’re beneath the notice of the Navy and other freebooters alike. And because no one would believe you if you told them I was involved. You’re frankly not a very credible witness.’
Frey searched his face, as if he could divine the thoughts beneath. Quail stared back at him patiently.
‘It’s an easy take, Frey. I know her route. She’ll be following the high ground, hugging the cloud ceiling, staying out of sight. No one’s going to know she’s there but you. You can bring her down over the Hookhollows. Then you pick up the gems, and you fly them to me.’
Frey didn’t dare hope it was true. Was it possible that he was simply in the right place at the right time? That a man like him could have a chance to make a lifetime’s fortune in one swoop? He wracked his memory for ways he might have given Quail offence, some reason why the whispermonger would send him into a trap.
Could Quail be working on someone else’s behalf? Maybe. Frey had certainly made enemies in his time.
But what if he’s not setting you up? Can you really take that chance?
The clammy, nauseous feeling he had at that moment was not unfamiliar to him. He’d felt it many times before, while playing cards. Staring at his opponent over a hand of Rake, a pile of money between them, his instincts screaming at him to fold and walk away. But sometimes the stakes were just too high, the pot too tempting. Sometimes, he ignored his intuition and bet everything. Usually he lost it all and left the table, kicking himself. But sometimes . . .
Sometimes, he won.
‘Tell you what. Throw in some female company, a bed for the night and all the wine we can drink, and you got a deal.’
‘Certainly,’ said Quail. ‘Which lady would you like?’
‘All of them,’ he said. ‘And if you have one who’s particularly tolerant—or just blind—she might see to Pinn, too. I’m gonna need his head straight for flying, and the poor kid’s gonna split his pods if he doesn’t empty them soon.’
Six
The Ghostmoth—Frey’s Idea Of Division—The Ace Of Skulls—Harkins Tests His Courage
In the steep heights of the Hookhollows, where the lowlands of Vardia smashed up against the vast Eastern Plateau, silence reigned. Snow and ice froze tight to the black flanks of the mountains, and not a breath of wind blew. A damp mist hazed the deep places, gathering in crevasses and bleak valleys, and a glowering ceiling of cloud pressed down hard from above, obscuring the peaks and blocking out any sight of open sky. Between sat a layer of clear air, a sandwich of navigable space within which an aircraft might pick its way through the stony maze.
It was isolated and dangerous, but this claustrophobic zone was the best way to cross the Hookhollows unobserved.
A distant drone came floating through the quiet. It steadily rose in volume, swelling and thickening. Around the side of a mountain came a lone, four-winged corvette. A heavily armed Besterfield Ghostmoth.
Lurking in the mist layer, barely a shadow, the Ketty Jay stayed hidden as it passed.
Frey watched the Ghostmoth from the cockpit, its dark outline passing overhead. Crake watched it with him.
‘That’s not the one we’re after, is it?’ he asked, rather hoping it wasn’t.
‘No,’ said Frey. He wouldn’t have taken on a Ghostmoth for any money. He was only concerned that its pilot might spot them and decide to take an interest. You could never be sure. There were a lot of pirates out here. Real pirates, not fairweather criminals like they were.
Nothing sat right with Frey about this whole plan. Nothing except the colossal payoff, anyway.
He’d never liked piracy, and historically he’d displayed a lack of talent in the field. Of the four times he’d tried it, three had been failures. Only once had he successfully downed and robbed a craft, and even then the loot had been meagre and his navigator got stabbed and killed in the process. Twice they’d been forced to flee in the face of superior firepower. On the most recent attempt they’d actually managed to board the craft only to find it had already delivered its cargo. That was the closest his crew had ever come to mutiny, until he hit on the idea of placating them with a night out at the nearest port. The following morning, the incident was forgotten, along with most of their motor skills and their ability to speak.
In general, Frey didn’t like being shot at. Piracy was a risky business, and best left to the professionals. Even Quail’s assurances of an easy take did little to quell his fears.
The Ghostmoth slid out of view, and Frey relaxed. He checked on Harkins and Pinn, hovering a little way above them and to starboard, dim in the mist. The Ketty Jay drifted silently, but for the occasional hiss of stabilising gas-jets as Frey’s hands twitched across the brass-and-chrome dashboard. The cockpit lights had been turned off, leaving the interior gloomy. Jez was sitting at the navigator’s station, studying a map. Crake, who had dropped in uninvited, stood behind the pilot’s seat, wringing his hands. Frey thought about ordering him back to his quarters but couldn’t be bothered with the argument that might ensue.
‘Quail said they’d be coming through here?’ Crake murmured.
‘That’s what he said,’ Frey replied.
‘Makes sense,’ Jez told Crake. ‘You want to get through the Hookhollows without being spotted, you follow the mountains that rise closest to the cloud ceiling. That way you can’t be seen from above and you minimise possible sight-lines from below. Two of the most obvious routes converge on this point.’
Frey turned around in his seat and looked at her. ‘I’m beginning to think that, after many months, I’ve finally found a navigator who actually knows what they’re doing,’ he said.
‘We’re few and far between, Cap’n.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Don’t get shot again. You’re useful.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, with a quirky little grin.
Frey settled back to watching. He’d begun to think that Jez was a lucky find. In the few days she’d been on board, she’d shown herself to be far more efficient and reliable than he’d expected. Competence was by no means a prerequisite to joining the crew of the Ketty Jay, but Jez was head and shoulders above the other navigators Frey had worked with. He suspected that she was accustomed to better crews than Frey’s mob, but their slapdash technique didn’t seem to bother her. And she was go
od at what she did. She’d brought them in from Marklin’s Reach with pinpoint accuracy, with only a featureless sea of cloud and a few mountain peaks to plot their position by. Frey had dropped down through the cloud and found himself dead in the middle of the pass they’d selected for their ambush.
She was a smart one. He only hoped she wasn’t too smart.
Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed, but Jez knew something was wrong with this job. He kept catching a glimpse of the question in her eyes. She’d open her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and look away.
She feels it too, Frey thought. Instinct.
Instinct. Perhaps. Or perhaps she sensed that her captain intended to rip them off good and proper.
He tried to feel bad, but he really couldn’t manage it. After all, you couldn’t be robbed of what you never had. Quail had promised him fifty thousand ducats, not them. Granted, he’d always maintained a system of fair shares for his crew, dividing the booty according to pre-arranged percentages, but these were exceptional circumstances. By which he meant an exceptional amount of money. Too much to share.
It was just this one time, he promised himself. Because after this, he’d never need to work again.
He’d informed the crew that Quail had given them the tip-off in exchange for one thing. There was a chest on board that he wanted. They were to bring it to him. Everything else was theirs for the taking.
Frey had obtained a full description of the chest, and he knew it would be locked tight. Quail had also assured him there were plenty more pickings besides. The crew could loot to their hearts’ content, and everyone would be happy. They didn’t need to know what was inside the chest. They didn’t need to know about the arrangement between Frey and Quail.
But Jez kept giving him that look.
‘I hear something,’ Crake said suddenly.
Frey listened. He was right: a low throb, accompanied by the higher whines of smaller engines. Hard to make out how many.
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