Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

They were escorted beneath the stone porch, where another guard—this one wearing a waistcoat and trousers and sporting a pair of pistols—opened the main door of the house. He had a long face and a patchy black beard. Frey recognised him vaguely from previous visits. His name was Codge.

‘Guns,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And don’t keep any back. You’ll make me real upset if you do.’

Frey hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of going into a situation like this without firepower. He couldn’t think of any reason for Quail to want him dead, but that did little to ease his mind.

It was the mystery that unnerved him. Quail had given no details in his letter. He’d only said that he had a proposition for Frey, for Frey in particular, and that it might make him very rich. That in itself was enough to make him suspicious. It also made him curious.

I just have to hear him out, Frey thought to himself. Anyway, they were here now, and he didn’t much fancy tramping back to the Ketty Jay until he’d warmed up a bit.

He motioned with his head to the others. Hand ’em over.

Once he’d collected their weapons, Codge stepped out of the way and let them into the entrance hall, where they stood dripping. Three more armed guards lounged about in the doorways, exuding an attitude of casual threat. A pair of large, lean dogs loped over to investigate them. They were white, short-haired and pink-eyed. Night hunters, that could see in the dark and tracked their prey by following heat traces. They sniffed over the newcomers, but when they reached Jez, they shied away.

‘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?’