"Ain't no one got so much money they couldn't use a little more."
-Unknown.
Quintilla walked along the mud path which wound up the shrubby hill.
An old fortress stood on the top of that hill. Grand and sturdy, once, made from proper stonework. Simple, rugged, angular architecture indicative of the continent. Now, over two centuries after its construction, the stone was crumbling and choked with brambles. There were several gaps in the walls which had been plugged with wood, rocks, and other debris.
Eight guard towers overlooked the city below. These days, they served as sniper’s nests, when needs must.
The wooden gates set into the outer walls—over three meters in height—were open, with several of the governor’s personal home guard standing by, rifles shouldered. They wore red coats and angular hats to set themselves apart from the general populace.
Kurko’s heavy footfalls beat a steady rhythm behind her.
The guards gawked at him as they approached.
He wasn’t the subtlest type, that one. If this had been a covert endeavor, she would have brought somebody else. Yin, perhaps. Today, however, she could use the passive air of intimidation that his brawn offered.
She had caught a whiff of a new lead.
And it was in that accursed fucking fortress.
The guards stopped them before they could enter.
“Identify yourselves!” one of the guards said, no doubt trying to sound authoritative despite the quaver in his voice.
“Captain Quintilla Wenezian, of the Tits Up,” Quintilla said. “But you already know that, so stop wasting my time. I have business with the governor.”
The guard flinched.
My reputation has preceded me, then, she thought. Good. All this work is finally paying off.
“Alright, go ahead then,” the guardsman in charge said, and they all stepped aside to let them pass.
Quintilla and Kurko entered into the courtyard of the fortress, which placed them in shade of the beating sun. More guards watched them from the grounds and the walls. If things went wrong today, several dozen of them would come crawling out of the woodworks.
That was too many even for her and Kurko to handle.
She did, in fact, not have an audience with the governor. That had been pure fabrication. She had heard whispers, however. Rumors of a Valerian agent who had arrived in Tumba.
Which meant that, most likely, the empire had a job they needed doing.
The governorship had once been a title bestowed by the Valerian Dynasty. Indeed, they were the ones who had built the fort, and the ones who had founded the city of Tumba in a joint venture with the seafolk, although it had likely been called something different all those centuries ago.
Now, the Aiyek Archipelago was a free place, having cast off the yoke of monarchies and empires. The governor was a living remnant of the old times, a glorified clerk with just enough power to keep one half of the pirates in the city from killing the other half.
They were allowed into the interior of the fortress, Kurko stooping to squeeze through the narrow corridors. He bumped every other magelight with his big head, causing the little light to flit around wildly for a few moments and casting demented, moving shadows across the floor.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Captain?” Kurko asked. His deep rumble of a voice echoed in the empty hallway.
“Good?” Quintilla asked. She grinned. “When have you known me to have any of those?”
“This is too dangerous. You should have sent me alone.”
“Learn to relax a little. I’m tough. You know that.”
Kurko grunted. “Not tough enough to survive a hailstorm of bullets.”
“It won’t come to that,” Quintilla assured him. “Just do as I say, and things will be fine. I’ve got rapport with old Orelius.”
“He hates your guts,” Kurko pointed out.
Quintilla shrugged. “And I hate him. But we do our little dance and we both get our jobs done. Perhaps you could take a page from that book with our new hiree, Mr. Lordling.”
“He’s untrustworthy.”
“So you think. I think differently, and I’m your captain. So you will allow him a place on my crew, and you will accept him until such a time as I say otherwise.”
Kurko blew a long plume of frigid air from his nostrils. “He’s weak.”
“He’s not weak,” Quintilla said firmly. “Just… understimulated. Spent his life at a fucking desk, what can you expect? But in the one day since landing on this island, he has not only doled out the street’s justice as according to our little Yin, but has also fist fought a fucking shark. What more do you want from the man?”
“He’s Concordian.”
“And you’re half Concordian. So stop whining.”
Kurko went quiet, and Quintilla nodded with satisfaction as she pressed on.
She proceeded up several flights of stairs, into the main wing of the fortress. She approached the governor’s office, and found two more guards posted outside, along with a pair of armed soldiers who certainly weren’t home guard. Their uniforms were light, and pinned to their chests were the golden sun insignia of the Valerian Dynasty. They were probably made of something a little more pedestrian, like brass, but they still struck a splendid image.
Her contact at Sweet Devil had been right, then.
The guards sized her up as soon as she got close, including the Valerian soldiers, and they moved their rifles into a more ready position.
“State your business,” one of the home guards said. “The governor is occupied. He isn’t seeing any of you riffraff today.”
“You must be mistaken,” Quintilla said, settling into a confident smirk. “Orelius has asked for me.”
Kurko stepped up behind her, and the guards backed up almost imperceptibly. The home guard steeled himself, however, drawing in a large breath and puffing out his chest.
“No, he hasn’t,” the guard said. “We would have been informed. Now, unless you want to end up in a cell, you will be escorted from the premises.”
In two long strides, Kurko was in front of Quintilla. He glared down at the guard with eyes that bugged out of his skull, nostrils flared. His breath froze the tips of the guard’s sparse mustache, and he seemed to shrink into himself, rifle trembling in his hands.
“Was that a threat?” Kurko asked, voice like rough sandpaper. “Or did I hear you wrong?”
Before Quintilla could tell him to stop, Kurko had three rifles pointed at him while the fourth fumbled with his.
The ornate door to the governor’s office came open. A small, bespectacled man stepped out, dark eyes half-hidden beneath bushy eyebrows.
A thinning ring of white hair contrasted his charcoal skin. His features were weathered with age, but tempered with the prolonging qualities of an honest, simple life. He wore a long, dark coat that split at his legs, embroidered with gold threads.
Orelius Chaesim, governor of Tumba and its territories.
“What is all this ruckus about?” the governor asked. His eyes, magnified by the glasses, took in the hallway with a glance. They fixed on Quintilla, and his frown deepened, forming creases around his eyes. “Oh. It’s you.”
He closed the door with a foot.
“Your ever loyal servant,” Quintilla said with a sarcastically exaggerated bow.
“Why are you here?”
“To see you.”
“I didn’t call you here.”
Quintilla smiled and spread her hands. “How fortunate, then, that I thought to come before you even figured to call upon me.”
Orelius snorted. He glanced inside his office. “You know I’d see you hanged for you impudence if it wasn’t for that deadeye of yours, don’t you?”
“I do. I also know that the rope would break before my neck. I’m more stubborn than I look?”
“More stubborn?” Orelius chuckled. “I cannot imagine it.” He sighed and rubbed his balding pate, hand shaky with age. “Fine. Come in, you parasite. But nothing that happens inside will leave you or your crew, got it?”
Quintilla nodded and walked towards the door.
Orelius held up a hand. “No, I’m not sure you do. Because if you speak a fucking word of this to anyone, paladins will come in the night and eviscerate you and yours. Won’t be a fucking speck left of you.”
Quintilla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Got it.”
Orelius glanced over his glasses up at Kurko. “And your… associate must stay here.”
Quintilla looked back at her first mate.
Kurko stiffened. His massive hands clenched into fists.
“You know I can’t agree to that, Captain,” he said. “You’ll be in danger in there. I have a duty to protect you.”
“You do,” Quintilla said. “But you also have a duty to do as you’re told. Right now, I’m telling you to stay put. You know me—I’ll be fine.”
She winked at Kurko and let the governor guide her into the office.
Orelius’s office was more disordered than one might expect by his neat appearance—a reflection of his overtaxed mind. A desk was squirreled away by a window in a corner, most of the available space taken up by dusty maps, volumes, and documents.
A pair of bookshelves stood along the back wall, filled almost to bursting. Most of the room, however, was taken up by a sitting area, several chairs aligned around a circular table. A tray on the table held some sliced fruit, cheese, and crackers.
A man sat in one of the chairs, watching Quintilla enter with a discerning gaze. He wore a set of short, white robes with a striking, scarlet red sash over one shoulder. He wore a full beard, curly and black, head shaved bald. He wore Valeria’s golden sun pinned to his sash, this one truly wrought from gold, as well as a few other gleaming brooches below it.
Orelius put on a wide, false smile as he entered, shepherding Quintilla towards the man with one hand.
“Magistrate Io Moricus, this is Quintilla Wenezian,” he said. “You may remember I spoke of her earlier. I sent for her because I believe she may be able to help with your, ahem, problem.”
A magistrate? This must be important, then.
Magistrates were major political players in Valeria, most with blood ties to the God Ruler herself.
Quintilla kept a straight face, but she had either stepped into a very fortunate situation or a very dangerous one. She suspected a little of both.
She shook the magistrate’s hand, and they all sat.
Moricus cleared his throat and leaned comfortably back in his chair, hands folded before him. His gaze didn’t slip off of Quintilla’s face for a moment.
“I will be succinct,” he said. “Do you have the means to incapacitate a Concordian warship?”
*****
Stephan’s breast swelled with trepidation and regret.
What have I done? he asked himself. I’m no pirate. What sort of idiot simply stands up and pledges himself to so treacherous a life?
Him, evidently.
He was that fool.
Sighing, he hobbled on, using one crutch for support.
Yin ambled behind him, distracted by the sights of the city. She was his babysitter for the day. He wasn’t savvy enough to protect himself in Tumba at the best of times, and with his arm and leg still recovering, that danger breathed even closer upon his neck.
The med-patches had partially closed up his wounds, but the cheap, second-hand vivimancy in those bandages could only do so much. They had left the affected areas lumpy and agitated, ugly scars already forming which he would no doubt be stuck with for life. The muscles in his lower leg and forearm panged with pain whenever he moved them too much.
Stephan headed towards the edge of the square, painstakingly making his way around the dense crowds of passersby. Every once in a while, a car or delivery vehicle passed by and forced the pedestrians to part, but they were far between. The city’s winding streets had clearly not been designed with motor traffic in mind.
He reached the transceiver—a metal box attached to the wall of a public office which was spattered with crude graffiti. A bluish hardlight screen flickered on its surface, an analog number pad below. An earpiece dangled from the transceiver with all sorts of questionable gunk smeared on it. Thick cables ran from the box into the ground.
Stephan stuck a coin in the slot, pinned the crutch under his arm, and brought a note out of his pocket. Using the information Yin had gathered for him at a local dive, he punched in the directory number for the Commander’s Office in Redharbor.
Stephan cleaned the earpiece with an edge of his note and stuck it in his left ear. His fingers hovered over the green ‘DIAL’ button. He hesitated.
Am I sure about this? he thought. I could tell them… Well, I could tell them the truth, for one.
“Hurry up, will you?” Yin called. “I don’t want to stand here gawking at your dumb self all day.”
Stephan pressed the button before arriving at his conclusion.
There was a minute of static and warped echoes. Long enough for him to work up a cold sweat.
Then the static cut out, and there was a voice on the other end.
“You’ve reached Redharbor’s Concordian embassy, how may I help you?” a female voice said.
“Yes, hello,” Stephan said. “I would like you to deliver a message to a person on the mainland.”
“Certainly, sir. What is their name?”
“Maya Estelle Lordling.”
“And the message?”
Stephan took a deep breath.
This is it.
My last chance to back out.
“I am alive,” Stephan said. “And I’m leaving. You are entitled to my assets. Go in peace, and…” He bit his lip. “And fuck you. There was never any love between us, and we both know it. Don’t pretend to mourn my leaving, for your own dignity’s sake.”
“Um,” the woman said. “Are you sure you want to include that last part?”
Stephan nodded to himself, running his tongue over his bottom teeth. “Every word.”
He hung up.
And he was happy.
Ecstatic.
A shiver of relief went through him, from the tips of his toes to the back of his neck.
I’m free. Free from all the shackles I put upon myself.
He spun to face Yin with a winning smile.
Except she wasn’t there. She perused a nearby market stall for baubles and jewelry, eyes wide with wonder as she scanned over the cheap metalwork.
Stephan limped over there on his crutch.
Someone bumped into him and he fell hard. He caught himself with both arms, and a sharp stab went up his left. His lips parted in a silent scream, and he rolled onto his back as he clutched his injured arm.
“Oh ho, sorry, didn’t see you there lad,” a man said with a jovial chuckle. He offered out a scarred, leathery hand.
Stephan took it. Painstakingly, and with gritted teeth, he was able to stand back up with the help of the old man.
He was short and stocky, with light brown, tanned skin and short-cropped black hair. He wore a full beard, and he smiled a toothy grin. He wore a patchwork of an outfit—a blue Concordian officer’s coat over a seasilk shirt that glittered like fish scales, dark, roomy pants that had no doubt belonged to an Ashlander, one pistol on each hip in mismatched holsters, and supple boots that looked well-worn but designer, likely from a Commonwealth fashion house.
That and the scars on his hands and arms marked him as a pirate. A veteran one, too, judging by the sheer number of old wounds he bore witness to.
The man had a clunky biomech leg which whirred with moving parts as he shifted his weight and shot steam out the side.
“Thank you,” Stephan said once the pain quieted.
“Nonsense,” said the man with a wave of his hand. “I’m the one knocked you over in the first place.” His grin remained and his eyes creased with mirth. Then, suddenly, they widened with recognition. “Say, lad, you don’t happen to be called Stephan Lordling, do you?”
Stephan blanched. He wasn’t sure whether to be frightened or intrigued that this man knew his name.
Despite his better judgment, he settled on the latter.
“I am,” he said.
The man laughed and clapped Stephan on the back. “I knew it right off! The bite marks give you away.” He held up his hand and bit into it playfully. “Rumors been floating around the docks about what you did yesterday. Some bravery it takes, to stare a bull shark in the eye like that and show it you’re the meaner bastard.”
Stephan chuckled nervously. “Ah, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly how it went down.”
The man took him by the shoulder and guided him towards a bar in the square. Stephan struggled to keep in step with his bum leg, even though the old pirate was slowed by his sub-par prosthetic.
“Nonsense, nonsense! Say, you’re Wenezian’s latest catch, aren’t you? So to speak?”
“Well, yes,” Stephan said. “I will be flying under her sail.”
The pirate gave him a sideways glance which made Stephan feel as though that had been the wrong expression to use.
“Always been fond of that girl,” the pirate went on without missing a beat. “Say, why don’t we go in for a pint? I bet you could use some advice from an old-timer like me.”
Stephan opened his mouth to accept.
“Lordling!” Yin shouted. “Get away from him. Now.”
Stephan froze and looked back. Yin stood a few meters behind them, staring intently at the old pirate with both swords drawn. She had settled into a low, predatory stance.
The pirate raised his hands, palms first, in a mockery of fear, but his grin didn’t slip one bit.
“Meant no offense, girl,” he said. “Don’t know what I did, but if my presence is such an eyesore on you, I will be gone.”
“Good,” Yin said. “And be quick about it, or you’ll need a replacement for the other leg, too.”
The pirate shrugged, turned around, and wandered off.
“What was that about?” Stephan asked Yin as they both watched him go.
She stuck her swords back in their sheaths. “Captain Rand.”
“Who?”
“One of the most feared pirates on the Shipbreaker Sea, that’s who.”
“Sounds like someone worth knowing then, in our line of work.”
“It does. Except the captain has told the crew explicitly to stay away from him, and never to deal with him or his.”
Stephan frowned. “Why? He doesn’t look like much.”
“I don’t know,” Yin said. “But there are few people who the captain gives such a wide berth, which means it must be for good reason.”
Captain Rand looked back before he rounded a corner.
He winked at Stephan, then disappeared.
*****
The whole crew was assembled in the captain’s cabin.
Kurko, the first mate, sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Kazzul, the pilot, lounged against a wall. Yin, the saboteur, hung upside down from a fixture in the ceiling, hair arrayed about her head. Torch, the demolitionist, tinkered with a glowing bit of enchanted metal. Taira, the astromancer, studied a beetle crawling across the back of her hand with rapt interest. Quintilla, the captain, sat behind her desk with a hat drawn over her eyes.
And lastly, Stephan himself, who was feeling a little out of place despite his official induction into the crew, sat in a chair, hands folded in his lap.
“Alright, everyone,” Quintilla said, flicking her hat back and sitting up straight. “We’ve got a job on our hands.”
“What kind of job is this, exactly?” Kazzul asked.
Quintilla’s gaze settled on Stephan for a long moment. “We will be taking down a Concordian warship.”
Stephan flinched.
First few days as a pirate, and he was already moving against his own homeland.
“Now, I understand you might have some apprehension about this, Mr. Lordling.”
“I’ll do it,” Stephan said quickly.
Quintilla’s eyebrows shot up. She nodded. “Alright. Good, then. We’ve been contracted by Valeria to wrangle this ship, steal certain documentation for their use, sink the fucker, and bring the documents back to them. They cannot afford to have it traced back to them, supposedly, as that would make for another war between the empire and the Concord. So, in return for this service, we will be paid two hundred kay standard. Usual shares apply. Questions?”
“Hmm, yes, I have one,” Kazzul said. “How do you intend for us to neutralize a warship? I don’t know if you have beheld this beauty up close as of late, but it is certainly no weapon of war. A warship will blow us out of the sky before we can even get in proper firing range.”
“Haven’t finalized that part yet,” Quintilla admitted. “But I will come up with something.”
Kazzul shuffled uncomfortably. “I would like something a little bit more reassuring than that.”
“We can go through strategy in due time. To everyone else, we take off tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”
Stephan turned to leave.
“Oh, and Mr. Lordling?” Quintilla called after him. “You’ll be part of the boarding team since this is your first time. Everyone must know their way around sacking a prize on this ship.”
Stephan’s blood froze. He stopped in his tracks and slowly looked back at the captain.
“You mean…”
“I’m expecting you to fight,” Quintilla clarified. “And it’s likely going to get bloody.”
Stephan swallowed.
Hard.
Aw, shit.
ns 172.70.131.199da2