by Taven Moore
“Hey, who said anything about romance? I’m not matchmaking; I’m just being a good wingman. I’ll bet you won’t find it so tedious once you’ve tried it.”
“I disagree.” Bones sighed, a sound like wind through a copper tube. “Shall we continue to make inane conversation, or shall we plan? As you are captain, it is of course your prerogative.”
Hank rolled his eyes. “Roith’delat, Bones, what’s got your cogs in a twist? You played the honesty card with the girl and I’ve gone along with it, insane a plan as it may be. What more do you want?”
Immediately, the ticker’s face shut down, his eyegleam dimming. “Never mind. It is irrelevant.”
“Say it anyway! I think you could do with a bit less relevance in your life. What are the calculated odds this girl is going to get our ship back?”
“As of this moment, eighty-three point four percent.”
Hank snorted. “Do something spontaneous, Bones. Just once, I’d like you to do something spontaneous.”
“I am a ticker, Hank,” Bones said quietly.
Hank ran a hand through his hair. “I know, Bones. I know.” He slid down the bars until he reached the floor, then tucked his chin to his chest, preparing to catch a catnap.
“Why’d you tell her my real name, anyway?”
Bones didn’t respond and Hank looked up to find the ticker’s eyegleam alternating between blue and red, a sure sign he was troubled about something. “Was it because you knew it would annoy me?” Hank prompted. “Or because you calculated the likelihood of her recognizing me and thought it a worthwhile risk?”
After another long moment, Bones finally replied. “I am not entirely certain.”
Hank’s eyebrows lifted, but he left the ticker alone to his internal musings. Prodding the ticker now would just cause him to close up worse than a miser asked to give to charity.
Still. The prospect that Bones had done something without calculating it beforehand was just interesting enough to make their current situation worth the trouble.
He closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until a guard appeared, rapping sharply against the bars next to his head with his baton. “Oy, you! To the back of the cell, and be quick about it!”
Hank scowled and glanced through the bars. Not a polite awakening. Two men stood, waiting for him to move so they could open the cell. The first was a guard—a short, bearded man with a look of smug self-importance that would have labeled him as the warden even without the extra gold braid at the shoulders of his uniform.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in full dinner dress stood next to the guard, his face obscured by the most ornate mourning mask Hank had ever seen. Most folks just made do with a small, disposable cloth mask during the week of mourning after the death of a loved one. This man wore a molded porcelain mask with an elongated nose, painted black with gold leaf detailing, and a fan of long black feathers trailing nearly to his waist.
Hank stood and moved to the back of the cell, eyeing the two men carefully. Bones moved to stand in his shadow and the girl stirred, lifting her head and blinking owlishly at the visitors.
A gentry guest escorted by the warden himself. Hank hadn’t been entirely certain the man wasn’t here to see him, but his concern faded as he noted that the man’s gaze remained fixed upon Remora.
The masked man clucked his tongue chidingly as he gestured to the guard to unlock the door. “Remmy, dear-heart, you do manage to get yourself into the most appalling situations, don’t you? Shall I post a guard on you round the clock to guard you against future infractions?”
Remora laughed, an unabashed smile of joy splitting her face. “Uncle! You came!” She stood and ran through the now-open cell door, throwing herself into the man’s embrace and wrapping her arms around his torso.
He hugged her tightly in return. “You mustn’t frighten me so, Remmy,” he murmured.
“I am sorry, Uncle. I should have left you a note.” She stood back, brightening. “But this means my gadget worked! You did get it, didn’t you?”
In reply, the man opened his jacket and pulled a familiar copper chain from a buttoned pocket. As he lifted the necklace from his pocket, the device began frantically sputtering, all eight legs scrambling at the empty air. The blades kicked in and it regained flight immediately, heading directly toward Remora. As it reached the end of the chain in the man’s fingers, it came to an abrupt stop. Like a frustrated dog, it strained against its bonds, trying to reach her.
Remora clapped her hands together and spun in a circle. “It worked! It found you, then it found me, precisely as intended!”
The man smiled, then released the chain. The spiderbot completed its task, returning to Remora and landing in her outstretched hand. The moment it touched her skin, it sputtered once and collapsed in her palm. She tucked it in her pocket, giving it a gentle pat.
“Remmy, Remmy. Just look at you! Where did you find such clothing? And you are not wearing your mourning mask! He was your father, Remora. You could at least wear it the full week. The scandal you will cause!” He reached forward and lifted the leather aviator’s cap from her head, grimacing distastefully as he tossed it to the side.
Released, her hair fell down her back like water from an urn. Red. Hank stared. Remora’s hair was red. Gleaming and pin-straight down to her waist, it was the color of an expensive foreign spice—cinnamon or cayenne.
Mentally, he did the math. Red hair. Named Price. Mourning the death of her father in the past week.
She wasn’t from one of the multiple Price branch families. She was from the very root of the Price tree. Magnus Price had been the caretaker of this entire city before he’d died in a plant explosion five days ago. Bael’s Roith’delat’en tail, they’d hit the jackpot! She could buy and sell their ship a dozen times over without so much as batting an eyelash.
“Come then, Remmy. Let’s get you home and into some more suitable clothing. You haven’t forgotten about our dinner with the leader of the docking guild, have you?”
“Oh, Uncle! He’s such a bore! All he talks about is ship manifests and profits,” said the wealthiest woman in the city, her lower lip jutting in a pout.
“It’s only for one evening, my dear, and we need his continued good favor.”
“Very well,” she said, lacing her fingers with his and moving out of the cell. As the guard locked the door, she glanced back at Hank and Bones. “Do try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone, boys? I promise I will be back for you,” she said with a wink.
“Good heavens, Remmy, just what sorts of friendships are you making?” her uncle asked, glancing back at them. His eyes drifted over Bones without truly seeing him, as most people did. They settled suspiciously on Hank’s face. Hank concentrated on looking as innocent as possible. “You haven’t let that one talk you into anything unsavory, I trust?”
“Good heavens, no, Uncle. The scruffy-looking one is a ship’s captain.”
“Hmm,” was the only reply the man gave before they continued walking down the hallway and out of earshot.
Scruffy-looking! Frowning, he rubbed a hand along his beard stubble. He hadn’t shaved in the past few days, but most women found a few rough edges attractive. Charming, even!
“That went well,” said Bones.
McCoy turned on his first mate. “Tell me you didn’t know she was the daughter of Magnus Price.”
The ticker said nothing, but his eyes whirled pale blue-green, a combination Hank had come to associate with smugness.
McCoy snorted and moved to the cot, landing heavily on the thin cushion. Roith’delat, he should keelhaul Bones for mutiny, keeping something like that a secret. He glanced over at his first mate and found him peering intently at a downy feather in the palm of his hand. True to character, the ticker had already moved past the conversation about the girl once his point had been made.
Hank sighed and laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back against the mattress. Hopefully the girl would buy back their ship soon and
he and Bones would be away from this forsaken city and back out doing what they did best; making money. Then he’d never have to see her again, except to pay back the debt as quickly as possible.
9. Jinn
“You wish to pay for the release of Hank McCoy?”
“And his cellmate as well,” Remora repeated. She wondered if perhaps the poor woman was a trifle hard of hearing.
The officer gave her a bemused look before turning away to thumb through some paperwork on her desk. Honestly, the way the woman acted, one might get the impression that prisons did not wish to release prisoners. Granted, Remora’s current clothing was more suited to casual travel than business meetings, but the lack of a few frills and laces never stopped anyone from accepting money in the past.
Furthermore, she truly was in a hurry. It had been fully four days since her release from prison, which was three days more than she’d intended to wait before setting off. The officer was taking so long to find the right paperwork that Remora toyed with the idea of asking if she could help. Really, their organizational system shouldn’t be this shoddy.
After a moment, the woman shook her head, clucking her tongue regretfully. “I’m sorry miss, but they’re being held for court. They owe a great deal of money for damages done to a local merchant’s establishment.”
“How much?”
“I’m sorry?” The woman pursed her lips and peered down her nose, brows drawn in confusion.
“How much for the damages?” Remora frowned when the woman’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t mean to be rude, but have you considered a hearing enhancement? In your line of work, I should think being unable to understand what a person is saying would be a grave detriment to your productivity.”
“Well!” the woman said, straightening her backbone before lifting her nose and glaring down at the folder on her desk. Remora stifled a sigh. She had managed to offend the woman, then. Her poor hearing must be a touchy subject. Remora shuffled from foot to foot impatiently as the woman’s eyes trailed down the paper. She really did not have time to dawdle.
Finally, the officer found what she was looking for. Stiffly, she read from the paper. “The final sum for the release of both prisoners and the reparations to the merchant comes to one hundred and twenty gold doubloons.” Dropping the folder to her desk, the woman steepled her fingers and leveled a severe look at Remora. “Hardly milk money, dear child.”
“Is that all?” Remora asked. The woman’s sneer vanished. “Please write up a receipt for my signature. You can send it to my estate for the payment.”
Voice hard and eyes narrow, the woman said, “Holding is not a place for fun and games, child. I have real work to do, so if you would excuse me, Miss—”
“Price,” said Remora.
The woman froze. “Excuse me?”
“Miss Price. You really must get your hearing looked at. I insist.” Remora fished out a gold doubloon from her pocket and placed it on the counter. “I do think you’ll find it makes a world of difference in your mood and overall demeanor as well. I apologize for the rudeness, but I really am in a bit of a rush. If you could signal for the release of the prisoners, it would be much appreciated. Send the bill to the late Magnus Price’s estate and I’m sure you’ll find the receipt settled to your liking”
“P-p-price?” The woman’s eyes grew round. “Y-yes, ma’am. Immediately, ma’am.”
“Do remember to visit a cogsmith about a hearing apparatus,” Remora admonished as the woman scrambled to her feet.
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said starkly, face uncommonly pale. Hastily, she collected the folder and stumbled through the door behind her desk.
“I do hope she remembers to release them,” Remora remarked to herself. “I don’t fancy having that entire conversation all over again.”
A guttural chuckle answered her. Remora spun, one hand lifting to press against her chest in alarm. “Oh! You startled me; I quite thought myself alone.”
A tall figure detached itself from a dark corner of the room, moving forward slowly. “Forgive me. It is my nature to seek the shadows. I am Jinn. Shima Jinn.” He sketched a formal bow. “I, too, am here to see the man who calls himself Hank McCoy, but I found myself without enough coin to procure his freedom.”
Tall, the man wore starkly black clothes cut in a style she had never before seen. A long tunic, split in both the front and the back flowed over pants wrapped from the arch of his foot almost to his knees. His face was wrapped in black cloth with only a narrow slit for his eyes. As if that weren’t enough, a large cowl obscured most of his face, casting his features into shadow. His eyes, nearly hidden by the cowl, shone a vivid red and what little of his skin showed was a startling slate gray.
It was no wonder that she hadn’t seen him standing in the shadows. The only spot of color on his person was a large yellow tassel the size of her fist dangling from something near his left thigh. A weapon hilt, perhaps? Though why it should be at his thigh rather than his shoulder she could not fathom.
He stood with arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Inhuman, unquestionably, but the greater curiosity was that she had no idea what he was. Her fingers itched for the books in her library, but that would have to wait.
Politely, she responded. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Shima. I am Remora Price.”
“If you please, it is only Jinn. Shima is my clan name.”
“Jinn, then, and you must call me Remora.” He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. “May I inquire as to your business with McCoy? I must admit to having plans for him myself, and I would know whether our purposes are at odds with one another.”
“If it would not be considered impolite, I wish to keep the details of my intent to myself for the moment. Would it suffice to say I have need of his ship and crew?”
Delighted, Remora smiled. Behind her, a door opened. “Ah, then you have business with me! I am now the owner of the Miraj, the ship captained by McCoy.”
“Like hell you are!”
Remora turned to see a uniformed guard escorting McCoy and Bones into the room. McCoy looked furious, eyes locked on hers. She sighed. “Bother. That was not how I wished to broach the matter with you.”
Bones’s gaze shifted from her to Jinn, eyebeams turning a vivid red. Hank’s gaze followed that of his first mate, and the look of outrage on his face turned to full-on wrath. “Shima Jinn,” he said flatly.
She turned to look at Jinn, wondering what he could have done to inspire such hatred. For his part, Jinn seemed utterly unfazed by his reception. “I have come to call in the favor you owe, Hank McCoy.”
10. A Carriage Awaits
“Sh-Sh-Shinra’ere!” Hank turned to see the warden standing in the doorway to Holding as though undecided whether he should enter or flee. Face red and eyes round, he pointed a quivering finger at Jinn. “Leave! All of you!”
Hank ignored the man, turning back to level a glare at Jinn. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing up and expecting favors after the stunt you pulled. We wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for you and that brother of yours!”
Jinn showed neither surprise nor guilt. “The outcome of our previous business is not my responsibility.”
“Incorrect.” Bones said, eyes glowing a dangerous red. “My calculations for our venture included the assistance of your brother and yourself. Had you remained with us rather than departing unannounced, our plan would have succeeded.”
Jinn’s posture never shifted, arms still crossed over his chest, though his voice tightened. “Our deal allowed you the use of my brother’s status to gain access to the skycity. Your assumption of our involvement past that point was neither our intent nor our accountability. We upheld our end of the bargain, regardless of whether or not you are satisfied with your outcome. Your part of the deal is still pending. You still owe a favor. A favor that I am here to collect.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed. “The way I figure it, any favor we owed you is s
itting back with the rest of our payload, which we had to dump in order to escape the Goralor guards.”
Jinn’s weight shifted, his arms lowering deliberately to his side. His hand grazed the handle of his weapon, fingers brushing against the bright yellow tassel tied to its hilt. “That is an unfortunate conclusion for you to have reached, Hank McCoy.”
Hank scoffed. “You aren’t going to start a fight in the middle of Holding on human-held soil. Your people would flay you.”
“Normally, that would be true. However, I am no longer Shinra,” said Jinn, voice level.
At that, Hank tensed. Just how much trouble were the Shima brothers in? He’d originally assumed they’d granted him the use of the authorization codes in order to cash in on part of the payload, but now he wondered just what it was they’d wanted on that skycity. If they were on the run from their own people, that was even more reason to get his ship and get out of this Roith’delat’en town while he still had the chance. He was not risking his skin for a pair of political outlaws that he already knew couldn’t be counted on.
“Out! Out! All of you!” shrieked the warden. Briefly, Hank entertained the notion of staying even longer and letting Jinn fight off the weight of the human constables while he and Bones slipped quietly out the front door, but this particular warden seemed more likely to stay behind the door waggling an impotent finger than he was to actually engage the Shinra’ere in battle.
A smart move, likely, even if it was motivated more by fear than logic. Even Hank didn’t want to face Jinn on even ground. He’d much prefer a pistol, a running start, and a wall between himself and Jinn if it came down to a fight. None of which he had right now.
“Excellent idea,” he said instead, nodding to the warden. “I’m leaving. Furthermore, I am not doing any favors for the Shima brothers, nor am I dealing with you,” he added, giving the almost-forgotten Remora a resolute look.
“Don’t be so negative, McCoy,” chided Remora, waving a hand dismissively. “I have a carriage outside. It will take us to the Miraj. Jinn, I do hope you can join us for the trip. Perhaps we can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement.” She smiled, then stepped over to Bones, placing her hand on his forearm. “Come, Bones. I would be much obliged if you would sit by me.”