‘Really?’ Frey was faintly surprised at how easily he’d agreed.
Crickslint got up in his chair and leaned across his desk to get a closer look. ‘Yes, yes, take it. Just one thing I’d ask, though.’
‘What’s that?’
Crickslint hit Crake hard across the face, a ringing slap that echoed through the empty curio shop.
‘Don’t embarrass yourselves by trying any more of that daemonist shit with me!’ he hissed, and sat back down. He motioned to one of his thugs. ‘Get him out of here.’
Crake was shocked, holding the side of his face. ‘He slapped me!’ he said to Frey in indignation.
‘I saw,’ said Frey grimly, as the thug descended on Crake and dragged him out of the shop. The bell above the door tinkled happily as Crake was flung out on to the street.
Crickslint had steepled his fingers again, gazing steadily at Frey, having returned to his self-appointed role as pantomime villain. ‘Now that… distraction is out of the way, perhaps we can negotiate man-to-man?’
‘Can’t blame a feller for trying,’ said Frey. The tooth only worked on people who were weak-willed or stupid. Crickslint was apparently neither.
‘I believe you were interrupted in the process of making me a ridiculous offer? You were asking me to entrust to you a valuable Samarlan relic, many thousands of years old, with a Firecrow as collateral? You do know the market’s been flooded with second-hand Firecrows since the Navy upgraded their fleet?’
‘Crickslint,’ said Frey. ‘It’s a classic aircraft. And you could own one, for a limited time.’
Crickslint laughed, a high, hysterical laugh that sawed through the brain and down the spinal column. Frey had to clutch the sides of his chair to resist punching him. He was just so punchable. Although it might be pretty hard on the knuckles with those chrome teeth in place.
‘You could own one! Very amusing. No, I think we’ll forget about the Firecrow.’
Frey was sort of relieved. He didn’t fancy explaining to Harkins that he’d have to do without his beloved aircraft, even though it technically belonged to Frey.
‘What about I do some jobs for you?’ Frey suggested. ‘For free, of course. You always need smugglers, right? I’m good at that.’
I really hope he doesn’t remember how good I was at stealing from him, too, Frey thought. But if Crickslint did remember, he wasn’t showing it.
Crickslint sat upright, one finger pressed against his lips in a classic pose of thought. The very artificiality of it made Frey murderous. He hated having to beg like this. He had half a mind to leave and come back with Plan B – B for ‘Bess tears everyone’s heads off’ – when Crickslint spoke again.
‘I have a proposal,’ he said. ‘I hear you have an exceptional pilot on your crew by the name of Artis Pinn.’
Pinn. Pinn with his arm in a sling.
‘What of it?’ Frey asked carefully.
‘I have a way that you could do me a service. After that, I might consider loaning you the relic you need.’
‘Go on.’
‘I know a man who owes me a lot. He’s also quite the gambler. I have an interest in seeing him lose a large amount of money. Then I’ll call in his debt and bankrupt him.’
‘Won’t that mean that you lose some of your money?’
‘Yes. But by bankrupting him I’ll be doing a far more valuable service to his rival. It’s a game of checks and balances, Captain Frey; you really don’t need to worry about it.’
‘So what do I have to do?’
‘There are races held outside the city. Single-seater craft, racing round a circuit. They’re illegal and unregulated, and a lot of money changes hands on them. The man I want is the backer for a pilot named Gidley Sleen. He places big bets on every race. I’m given to understand that Sleen is a virtual certainty to win tomorrow; the competition is feeble. Short odds will mean his backer will place an even bigger bet than usual to get a good return.’
‘You want me to enter Pinn in the race?’
‘I want you to enter him, and I want him to win. He’ll go in as an unknown. I’ll back him myself: the odds will be very favourable. When he wins, I’ll make a lot, and my target will lose a lot, I’ll call in my debt at the right moment and-’ He clicked his fingers.
‘Then you’ll loan me the relic?’
‘For two weeks. And if it’s not back in my hands by then, I will find you.’ He snapped his teeth together. ‘You don’t want that.’
‘Done,’ said Frey. ‘And don’t worry. Pinn’s the best damn pilot in Vardia.’
‘I’m gonna do what? ’ Harkins shrieked, at the same time as Pinn cried: ‘He’s gonna do what?’
Frey pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. To Crake, who was sitting with his feet up on the table of the Ketty Jay ’s mess, the Cap’n looked tired and harassed. Good,
‘It’s pretty simple,’ Frey said. ‘Harkins, you’re gonna pretend to be Pinn tomorrow, and fly the race in his place.’
‘Him?’ Pinn cried, pointing at Harkins. ‘I’m a better pilot even with my arm in a sling!’
Harkins muttered something unintelligible, but probably insulting.
‘You can’t fly properly with one arm, Pinn,’ said Frey. ‘You barely managed to land the Skylance in Thesk without crashing it.’
But Pinn was in the midst of a tantrum and wasn’t really listening. ‘I wanna fly!’ he said. ‘This is a fringement of my human rights!’
‘A fringement?’ Crake said in weary disgust, rousing from his sulk.
‘Fringement!’ Pinn snapped. ‘Like when someone’s in your fringe!’
Crake opened his mouth, and shut it again with a sigh. He couldn’t be bothered.
‘Is that even a word?’ Frey asked Malvery, who was stirring a pot of soup at the stove. Malvery shrugged without turning around. He didn’t want to get involved.
Slag watched the conflict with half an eye, having decided to join the crew in the mess. He’d plonked himself down in a languid curve on the table and was surreptitiously lapping at a patch of spilled coffee when he thought nobody was looking.
‘Crickslint doesn’t know what you look like,’ Frey told Pinn. ‘As far as he knows, Artis Pinn is skinny and balding and loud noises give him a heart attack.’
‘Instead of someone resembling an angry potato with an attitude problem,’ Crake added.
‘You shut up, you milky little ponce,’ said Pinn. ‘You just got slapped by a guy with no teeth.’
‘Hey, he had teeth! Big shiny ones!’ Crake protested, but nobody was listening.
‘I am not pretending to be him!’ Harkins declared, thrusting a trembling finger at Pinn.
‘He is not pretending to be me!’ Pinn said.
‘Yes. He. Is,’ said the Cap’n. ‘Because we need that relic back.’
‘ You need that relic back,’ Pinn corrected.
‘Yes, I need it,’ said Frey, who was getting to the end of his tether. ‘And if I end up dead, what do you think happens to you lot? No more Ketty Jay. Are you all going to go and get jobs or something?’
Pinn went pale at that. Before anyone could offer anything else, the cat suddenly sprang up, arched his back and hissed.
‘Here comes Jez,’ said Malvery, without taking his eyes off the soup.
Sure enough, Jez climbed down the ladder a moment later. Slag bolted, leaping off the table and onto the counter-top, and finally up on top of a cupboard, where he sat crooning malevolently.
‘That cat really hates you,’ Crake observed.
‘He hates everyone,’ said Jez dismissively. She turned to the Cap’n. ‘Course plotted for the race site. It’ll take us two hours, more or less.’
‘Fine,’ said Frey. ‘Early start tomorrow, lads.’ There were general groans at the news. ‘I know, I know. But we have to get there in plenty of time. We need to tune up the Firecrow. She’ll have to be at her best if we’re gonna win this race.’
‘If I’m gonna win it,’ said Harkins, puffing out his chest. Thin as he was, it didn’t puff too far.
‘Oh? I thought you didn’t want to race?’ said Frey wryly.
Harkins glanced at Jez and coughed. ‘Well, you know… I changed my mind! If there’s flying to be done, I’m the man to do it. Artis Pinn!’