“The Second War of the East ended, as all spats between the Concord and Elandra, in a draw. Which doesn’t stop them from throwing their vassals at each other. Ever vain little children, playing at kings.”
-High Queen Milandra of the Ashlands, 180 U.E.
Kazzul muttered under his breath as he wrenched at a stubborn nut. He pushed too hard and the wrench slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.
“Worms take you!” he cursed in his own language. With a sigh, he stooped and picked up the implement.
He had slept poorly. The crew was gone, and the workmen that passed through the ship with tools and materials provided little comfort. The lonely halls of the Tits Up echoed half-forgotten voices. Blood seeped from the walls, the taps, the fixtures.
I can’t do this much longer. When will they be back?
Kazzul cursed the captain, called her every name he could think of. Why had she forced him to stay? For some auxiliary engine they would never need? Excuses. All excuses.
“Left you… behind…” the ship groaned, voicing his own thoughts. “Abandon you… Despise you…”
Kazzul ignored her. He doused himself with water from a bottle to keep the cloying heat of the engine room at bay and continued working. He set about attaching the parasitic cluster of cables and machine parts to the larger engine, which took up most of the room.
“Bad person…” the ship squealed. “Liar. Thief. Murderer.”
“What the fuck do you want from me, eh?” Kazzul cried, spinning to face the bare metal walls. He threw down the wrench, muscles tight, head beating. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“I want you… happy… with me…”
“Yeah? You’ve got shit bedside manners.”
“Your fault…”
Kazzul threw up his arms in exasperation. “You won’t be happy until I’m the most miserable bastard on the Shipbreaker Sea.”
He eyed the open door, considering going out for some air. But it was no use. He knew it would only swing shut in his face. Instead, he sank to the floor.
Jahwa… Why did I ever let you slip between my fingers?
Kazzul’s skin went cold despite the heat, the blue and green shifting darker. Mournful longing weighed him down, and he wished he could do what humans did and expel his emotions through tears.
He was alone. And no one would be coming to help.
*****
Quintilla returned with news of the final piece, and the crew called a meeting in Vormor’s kitchen. The Spider served burnt-black cupcakes. Stephan politely nibbled on one before setting it aside.
“Leave it to your glorious captain to track down the final piece while you layabouts stay inside,” Quintilla said. She had one foot on a chair, grinning wide.
“You did order us to do that,” Stephan said.
“And you’re welcome. Now, I’ve been informed that the last piece is in the possession of one Berrus Crew.”
“I have never heard of them,” Taira said, peeking past her book.
“Neither have I. They’re fresh faces, apparently. I have already set up a trade. Tomorrow at Sweet Devil, neutral ground. Kurko, Yin, you’re coming with me.”
“Yes, Captain,” Yin said without any of her usual spunk.
“Status on that nasty little business with Rand’s boy?” Quintilla asked, turning to Stephan.
He cleared his throat. “We’ve confirmed that he did pass information on to Rand, but he’s been… dealt with.”
Quintilla nodded. “I suppose that’s as good as I could hope for. Well done, Mr. Lordling.” She didn’t press for details, to his relief. Wil’s dead eyes had haunted his dreams.
“Once we have the map piece,” she continued, “we return here to reveal the location of the treasure. We use Taira’s portals to reach the Tits Up unnoticed and steal out of the city unnoticed. Sound good to everyone?”
There were no objections. Quintilla clicked her tongue. “Excellent. Just don’t answer the door while we’re gone.”
*****
Quintilla nursed a tall beer while waiting for the Berrus Crew to show themselves. Kurko sat cross-legged on the floor next to her, stroking his frosty beard. Yin was by the bar, keeping an eye on everyone who entered. She was to signal at any sign of suspicious activity.
Quintilla kept a hand on her revolver. After what had happened with Barandi, she wasn’t taking any chances. Willby, the reedling bartender, and a few of the other lowlifes in the establishment were also on her payroll. If a fight broke out, they would spring to their defense.
Scanning the bar, she took in everyone present. It was only morning, and therefore not particularly busy. A pair of inebriated fellows diced for a jeweled dagger, most certainly stolen from its rightful owner. A group of thugs whispered in hushed tones about some job or another. A waitress trotted back and forth, cigarette pinched between her lips. The three pirates in Quintilla’s employ, deckhands on Verdulion’s crew, pretended to play at cards, and badly.
To be expected, I suppose, she thought. I hired fighters, not actors.
Lastly, a man sat alone by the bar. He had been there since before they arrived, tan shirt stained with dirt and drink. His dirty blond hair was mussed, falling over his eyes, and his head drifted towards the countertop every so often before jerking back up. He was obviously well past his due, but that didn’t stop him from ordering a staggering amount of shots, one after another.
Armed, Quintillay coolly observed, eyeing the revolver on the man’s hip. A shiny, gold-plated piece, far too fine for a drunkard such as him.
She waited another few minutes, but her patience was wearing thin. Ten o’clock had been the agreed-upon time. It was now a quarter past.
“This feels like a trap,” Kurko grumbled.
“I agree,” Quintilla said. “It reeks of Rand. Let’s leave.”
She pushed her chair back and stood, striding towards the bar to update Yin and tell Willby that his services wouldn’t be needed.
The sound of shattering glass made her pause mid-step.
“Look out!” Kurko cried, but it was too late.
A hot streak went past Quintilla’s ear, struck the wall of bottles behind the bar. The world became light, and she was thrown back, everything spinning, spinning, spinning.
The ground met her with all the gentleness of an abusive parent, knocking her back to her senses. Slowly, slowly, she worked up onto her hands and knees. Her ears rang, and the world swayed.
Willby’s mangled corpse lay in front of her, the left part of his torso torn clean off.
Distorted gunfire echoed through the ringing. Getting onto her feet and looking back, she found Kurko shielding her with his body, grunting as bullets tore off chunks of his icy armor.
Men in plain clothes poured through the doors, brandishing automatic rifles. With short, controlled bursts, they systematically finished off the patrons as they worked their way through the bar. Quintilla counted seven once her vision cleared.
Yin had already gotten to work, a green blur that bounced between the attackers. She shaved one of them a hand shorter, but three others focused their fire on her, forcing her into a desperate series of dodges.
Quintilla leapt behind the bar to relieve Kurko, cutting her ass on broken bottles. She reached for her revolver, but saw that Willby had a shotgun beneath the counter and pulled it out. Standing up, she fired back on the attackers, catching one in the chest. He fell away gasping for breath, blood already welling out of his mouth.
Kurko pulled the Knocker off his back, and the men ceased their advancement, wide-eyed. He fired, taking out three in a single blast and sending the rest running.
Silence settled over the bar as the attackers filed out.
“We were set up,” Kurko grunted.
“No shit,” Quintilla said, jumping back across the bar. “But those weren’t Rand’s men.” She knelt by one of the dead attackers. She rooted through his pockets and boots, finding nothing. Opening his shirt, she found a medallion inside hanging on a chain.
Six yellow stars on a blue field.
“Motherfucker,” she hissed. “Concordians!”
“Seems they’re interested in the treasure, then,” Yin said, skidding to a stop next to her.”
“This won’t be the last of them,” Quintilla said, rising. “Get ready.”
Movement behind from behind made her spin, shotgun leveled. The dirty-haired drunkard slowly stood, supporting himself on a stool. The stool slid and the man fell on his face, muttering to himself. He fell once more, managing to get his feet beneath him on the third attempt.
Miraculously, the man seemed unharmed, wood splinters and glass shards dusting his shirt.
“One helluva wake-up call,” the man slurred with a chuckle. His eyes struggled to focus on Quintilla. “Say, do you know the time?”
“If you want to live, run,” Quintilla said.
The man laughed again, brushing glass out of his blond mop of hair. “So serious. It’s not good for you, you know.”
“Captain!” Kurko shouted, followed by an ear-splitting blast from his shotgun. “More of them!”
Quintilla shoved the drunkard aside and spun. Another explosion tore a hold through the right-hand side of the building, wood splinters digging into her arm. She hissed through her teeth and shot the first man who came through the hole. Half-a-dozen more followed, while just as many came through the front. Kurko, being a big target, caught another handful shots to the chest. His armor was all but worn away, and he sank to one knee, letting out a frigid gasp.
Yin took out a pair of attackers, slicing their heads clean off in one sweep, but more kept coming. It seemed as though the Concordians had assembled a small army beyond the bar’s thin walls.
Quintilla ducked behind a turned-over table, knowing it wouldn’t offer much cover. The drunkard wandered past her, bullets whizzing about him, not a single one finding their mark.
“This doesn’t seem very fair,” the drunkard said. “One, two, three against so many.” He stumbled over a severed leg and nearly fell, righting himself with a chuckle. “Maybe I ought to even the odds a bit.”
With a surprisingly nimble flourish, the drunkard fished out his heavy revolver and spun it around his index finger. He burped, dribbled vomit down his chin, and fired six rounds without aiming.
Golden slugs briefly washed the ruined bar in stark light. Six Concordians were incinerated to the bone, their ashes drifting into the air.
The drunkard held up his gun and spun open the cylinder. Bullets of ethereal light materialized from nowhere, inserting themselves into the chambers. The drunkard flicked the revolver closed and dumped the bullets with equal abandon. Another half-dozen Concordians fell dead, all trace of their features burned away in an instant.
Everyone in the bar stopped. The remaining Concordians stared. Yin landed on a table, looking back with her jaw agape. Kurko struggled to stand, using his oversized shotgun as a crutch.
“What the fuck…” Quintilla whispered. She looked the swaying drunkard up and down, peering past his disheveled clothing, rough stubble, and thicket of dirty hair. “You’re…”
The drunkard blew smoke off the barrel of his revolver. He smiled, chunks of vomit in his teeth. “Oh, yeah. I’m the Golden Son, baby.”
The Concordian soldiers turned and ran. This time, it didn’t seem like they were coming back.
Hmmm, a mysterious newcomer? I wonder what they have to bring to the table.