‘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
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.