There was a high shout of alarm from nearby. The handler emerged from a nearby alley, still hitching up his trousers.
‘Here they come!’ Pinn said.
‘Get out from under there!’ Frey barked at them. ‘Now!’
They scattered at the urgency in his vo sncyGet out frice. The driver was running over towards them, shouting curses in Samarlan. Frey stood as close to the rushu’s side as he dared, raised his revolver, and fired into the air.
The rushu reared in fright with an enormous bellow, and lunged against its tethers. It only took one pull. The pillar splintered and pulled away with a crunch of wood. Frey scampered back as the gallery above groaned horribly, and then the whole front wall of the upper storey collapsed, crashing down onto the porch in front of the doorway.
The rushu, panicked, lurched off down the street. The handler chased after it, swearing at the top of his voice, although he still took the time to spit at Frey as he passed by.
The doorway to the Underneath was entirely buried now. The floor above was exposed, revealing shabby, barely-furnished rooms. A middle-aged Dakkadian was peering down at them over the edge of his bathtub, with the kind of expression you might expect to see on a man in his situation.
Jez walked up next to Frey, admiring the destruction. ‘Nice,’ she said.
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Frey agreed. He surveyed his crew. All present and correct, and nobody hurt, unless you counted Pinn’s arm being in a sling. ‘Anyone else think we’ve outstayed our welcome in Samarla?’
Malvery, Pinn and Crake all raised their hands at the same time. After a moment, Jez did as well.
‘Yeah. Me, too,’ said Frey.
‘Think I’ll make myself scarce,’ said Ashua. ‘You lot are dangerous company right now.’
‘Thanks,’ said Frey. ‘For… y’know.’ He held up his corrupted hand.
Her gaze flicked from Crake to Malvery, then back to him. ‘Right.’ She hesitated a moment, then said: ‘You need to find me, get a message to the Black Drake Inn. It’s a Vard joint. They’ll know how to get in touch.’
She ran off without further ado. The doctor watched her go with a melancholy and booze-soaked wistfulness in his eyes, but Frey was glad to see the back of her. Useful as she’d been, she was troublesome, and he didn’t need any more trouble right now. He still blamed her in some small way for his predicament. If she hadn’t goaded him, he wouldn’t have been forced to show off and pick up the relic.
‘Alright, everyone,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’ve had enough of Shasiith. Let’s go home before someone kills us.’
Thirteen
‘What do you mean, you don’t have it any more?’
Trinica regarded Frey flatly from the seat behind her desk. ‘I can’t imagine where you found confusion in my meaning,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the relic. I sold it on.’
‘Already?’ Frey was aghast.
‘Hours after I arrived in Thesk. I told you, the buyer was very keen.’
‘Who was it?’
‘That’s not your business.’
‘This is serious, Trinica!’ he snapped. ‘I need to know!’
Her expression didn’t change at all, but somehow the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees anyway.
‘You would do well to remember where you are and who you’re talking to,’ she said, in a voice like a rusty blade.
Frey knew exactly where he was. In the captain’s cabin of the Delirium Trigger, talking to the ghost of the woman he’d loved. Where was the Trinica he’d dined with two nights ago? Where was the softness of the hand across the table, touching his?
He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, cursing the delay that had cost him the relic. Even following the compass linked to the ring on her finger, it had taken a day to fly to Thesk and another to track her down. The capital was a big place.
Trinica was gazing out of the sloping window next to her, having lost interest in him all of a sudden. She was evidently in one of those moods. The cabin’s atmosphere was oppressive, with its heavy brass fittings and dark wood bookcases full of unfamiliar titles. He spotted the book he’d given her over dinner, and felt resentful that her gratitude had been so brief.
Balomon Crund, Trinica’s bosun, stood watchfully by the door. After escorting Frey through the passageways of the aircraft, he’d remained in the room instead of leaving.
‘What’s he still doing here?’ Frey asked irritably.
‘He’s my bosun,’ said Trinica, still looking out of the window. He couldn’t imagine what was so interesting out there: the Delirium Trigger was berthed in a hangar.
Frey composed himself. Peevishness would get him nowhere. ‘Might we speak alone, Captain Dracken?’ he said with exaggerated politeness.
‘I don’t think so, Captain Frey. Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Mr Crund. I assure you, he’s very discreet.’
Frey bit back a retort. He didn’t need games right now. He was flustered, agitated, on the edge of control. He flexed his corrupted hand, which he’d covered up with a ratty fingerless glove. He wanted to show her, to confide in her and be comforted. He was scared, damn it! But she was evidently determined to make this difficult.
He made an effort to calm himself. ‘As a favour to me, in the spirit of our recent alliance,’ he said, his voice tight with restrained fury, ‘would you tell me who bought that relic, Captain Dracken?’ He took a steadying breath and managed a passable smile. ‘ Please,’ he added venomously.
She turned away from the window and studied him with her black eyes. She was like some terrible bird of prey examining a mouse. ‘I sold it to Jid Crickslint,’ she said eventually.
Frey gave a small groan and winced. Crickslint was not a name he wanted to hear.
He’d always tried to make it a policy not to rip off anyone who was liable to get their own back on him. In fact, over the years he’d got pretty good at identifying which criminals were on their way up and which were on their way out. The former, he dealt with fairly. The latter he cheated, knowing that they’d likely be dead or ruined before he came back that way again.
But no system was perfect and he’d made the odd mistake. Crickslint was one of them. He was a fence and a moneylender, and a really annoying pain in the arse to boot. Everybody in Thesk hated him, and everybody needed him. By balancing a bewildering mass of debts and favours, he’d ended up a small-scale crimelord.
Frey and his crew had done a few smuggling jobs for him, years ago. Then one day, after receiving the cargo for one of these jobs, they got a bit of news. Someone had finally done what everyone wanted to, and smashed the little weasel’s face in.
Frey had sensed an opportunity. With Crickslint’s reputation as ruined as his teeth, it was only a matter of time before his rivals overran him. Crickslint would have too much on his plate to worry about one little shipment going missing. So Frey sold the cargo himself, kept the money, and didn’t think much more about it.
But Crickslint didn’t go under. He found the man who’d embarrassed him and made a bloody example. He ruthlessly crushed the rivals who were jockeying for his spot. Soon he was back and stronger than ever. Frey didn’t know whether Crickslint had really noticed his little bit of thievery, but he’d made sure to stay out of his way just in case.
And now Crickslint possessed the only thing capable of saving Frey’s life. The world was truly an unjust place.
‘I need you to get t {yothe carghe relic back,’ he said to Trinica.
Her laugh infuriated him. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Return the money. Straight swap. I’ll make it up to you.’