meal proceeded in silence. Jaren ate sparingly of a mixed green salad. Teg's lunch consisted of eight small glasses of dark brown liquor. Nakvin stuck to water. After staring across the table at Jaren for several minutes, she finally asked, “What's the plan?”
Jaren took a large swig from his own water glass. “I don't have one.”
“We could stay here,” Nakvin said. “Start over.”
Jaren was about to speak, but the waitress returned with the bill. Teg snatched up the slip of paper and scanned the handwritten figures. “I win,” he said with slightly slurred pride.
Fingers like white sausages plucked the bill from Teg’s grasp with surprising delicacy. Jaren looked up to regard the newcomer.
The fat fingers belonged to a fellow of proportionate girth wearing a three piece suit the waxy white hue of lily petals. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat and clutched an ivory cane in his left hand. “Allow me,” he said, gently sliding the bill into his coat pocket. It re-emerged folded around a bank note of unclear denomination, but the waitress' eyes bulged when she opened it.
“Excuse me,” said Teg. “Are we under arrest?”
A deep chuckle emanated from beneath the white jacket. “I am not a customs inspector,” the fat man said. “I am, however, in the service of a higher authority.”
“State your business,” Jaren said.
“Your patience deserves its reward, but our business is not meant for the uninitiated.” The fat man motioned for the pirates to follow him. “Take heart. Deliverance lies close at hand.”
Without further goading, the pirates followed the stranger to the back, where a stairway led to a cool dank storeroom that must have been an enlarged natural grotto. “Though stones have ears, we shan’t be disturbed,” he promised.
The fellow’s certainty made Jaren suspect that more had passed between him and the proprietors than a generous tip. “We're not in public anymore,” Jaren said. “So talk to us like professionals, not first term poetry students.”
A moist grin parted the man's rubbery lips. “Professionals,” he said. “That you are indeed! A great deal of professionalism was required to retrieve my cargo.”
“Those are your cubes?” Nakvin asked.
“Not mine. I am only a broker.”
“Well,” said Teg, “I hate to disappoint, but you've got some competition. We've had a pretty attractive offer from a local firm.”
“In exchange for the lot,” the broker said, “I will pay you one million guilders issued by a private Mithgar banking house.”
Teg’s eyes widened. “Those aren't paperweights,” he said to Nakvin.
Hope struggled to take root in Jaren’s hardened heart. “That's it?” he asked. “We hand over the stones, you pay us a million in untraceable cash, and then we part ways?”
“Fifty thousand for the cargo,” the fat man said, “and an offer of employment.”
“Your employers want their goods delivered,” Jaren guessed.
The broker spread his flabby hands. “My principal is an independent organization of some consequence. They have had past dealings with the Guild but are now working at cross-purposes and seek experienced freelancers. I am to divulge the location of their secure facility, contingent upon your acceptance of their offer.” With a wry smile he added, “They extend their sympathies for your deportation and the capture of your crew.”
Jaren studied the broker's swollen face and stifled the sudden urge to kiss it. Such an absurdly sweet deal should have raised Jaren’s inner alarms, but weeks of dancing on Malachi’s strings had sapped his defenses.
“You know we’ll use your money to murder a Guild Master, right?” Jaren asked.
The broker’s grin widened. “The funds are yours to spend as you wish.”
Jaren saw cautious joy brightening Nakvin’s eyes. He looked to Teg, who nodded.
“Make it ten percent up front and you’ve got a deal,” Jaren said, cracking a hungry smile of his own.
14
Jaren
Jaren took a large swig from his own water glass. “I don't have one.”
“We could stay here,” Nakvin said. “Start over.”
Jaren was about to speak, but the waitress returned with the bill. Teg snatched up the slip of paper and scanned the handwritten figures. “I win,” he said with slightly slurred pride.
Fingers like white sausages plucked the bill from Teg’s grasp with surprising delicacy. Jaren looked up to regard the newcomer.
The fat fingers belonged to a fellow of proportionate girth wearing a three piece suit the waxy white hue of lily petals. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat and clutched an ivory cane in his left hand. “Allow me,” he said, gently sliding the bill into his coat pocket. It re-emerged folded around a bank note of unclear denomination, but the waitress' eyes bulged when she opened it.
“Excuse me,” said Teg. “Are we under arrest?”
A deep chuckle emanated from beneath the white jacket. “I am not a customs inspector,” the fat man said. “I am, however, in the service of a higher authority.”
“State your business,” Jaren said.
“Your patience deserves its reward, but our business is not meant for the uninitiated.” The fat man motioned for the pirates to follow him. “Take heart. Deliverance lies close at hand.”
Without further goading, the pirates followed the stranger to the back, where a stairway led to a cool dank storeroom that must have been an enlarged natural grotto. “Though stones have ears, we shan’t be disturbed,” he promised.
The fellow’s certainty made Jaren suspect that more had passed between him and the proprietors than a generous tip. “We're not in public anymore,” Jaren said. “So talk to us like professionals, not first term poetry students.”
A moist grin parted the man's rubbery lips. “Professionals,” he said. “That you are indeed! A great deal of professionalism was required to retrieve my cargo.”
“Those are your cubes?” Nakvin asked.
“Not mine. I am only a broker.”
“Well,” said Teg, “I hate to disappoint, but you've got some competition. We've had a pretty attractive offer from a local firm.”
“In exchange for the lot,” the broker said, “I will pay you one million guilders issued by a private Mithgar banking house.”
Teg’s eyes widened. “Those aren't paperweights,” he said to Nakvin.
Hope struggled to take root in Jaren’s hardened heart. “That's it?” he asked. “We hand over the stones, you pay us a million in untraceable cash, and then we part ways?”
“Fifty thousand for the cargo,” the fat man said, “and an offer of employment.”
“Your employers want their goods delivered,” Jaren guessed.
The broker spread his flabby hands. “My principal is an independent organization of some consequence. They have had past dealings with the Guild but are now working at cross-purposes and seek experienced freelancers. I am to divulge the location of their secure facility, contingent upon your acceptance of their offer.” With a wry smile he added, “They extend their sympathies for your deportation and the capture of your crew.”
Jaren studied the broker's swollen face and stifled the sudden urge to kiss it. Such an absurdly sweet deal should have raised Jaren’s inner alarms, but weeks of dancing on Malachi’s strings had sapped his defenses.
“You know we’ll use your money to murder a Guild Master, right?” Jaren asked.
The broker’s grin widened. “The funds are yours to spend as you wish.”
Jaren saw cautious joy brightening Nakvin’s eyes. He looked to Teg, who nodded.
“Make it ten percent up front and you’ve got a deal,” Jaren said, cracking a hungry smile of his own.
14
Jaren
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