black beaks. This one’s was brown.”
The mood in the limo was slightly hilarious—they might have been a bunch of tourists in the same gondola, passing a flask of schnapps around, and in another minute they’d get to the top of the mountain and ski off in separate directions forever. Except that they wouldn’t. It was strange to think that he might have to trust these people with his life.
“Tell me,” Pushkar said. “Who here went to Brakebills?”
“What’s Brakebills?” Stoppard said brightly.
“Oh my God.”
Betsy looked like she was thinking about jumping out into traffic. “It’s like a mobile fucking
Breakfast Club
in here!”
“I did.” Quentin couldn’t think of any reason to keep it a secret.
“I did.” Plum shrugged. “Sort of.”
The limo slowed down and went over a speed bump. They were almost at the airport already.
“So are we supposed to have specialties, or something?” Plum said. “Is that how this works? I got the impression we were all supposed to have special skills or something.”
“You’re saying you don’t have any special skills,” Betsy said.
“Is that what I said? Probably I’m here because they want somebody who does illusions.”
“I specialize in transport,” Pushkar said crisply. “And some precognition.”
“Stoppard?”
“Devices,” he said proudly. Quentin tentatively tagged him as some kind of prodigy, or precocious anyway. That would explain his youth, and the special treatment from the bird.
“All right,” Betsy said. “I guess I’m offense. Penetration. Damage. What do you do, Quentin?”
She said it as if she were not completely convinced it was his real name.
“Not much,” he said. “My discipline is mending.”
“Mending?” Stoppard said. “The fuck do we need somebody who mends shit?”
“Beats me. You’d have to ask the bird that.”
Quentin very much doubted that that was why he was here. He was doubting it more all the time.
Fortunately it was a short trip: the limo drew up under the lighted awning of the airport Marriott, and bellmen in cheap livery converged on it, probably hoping it contained drunk, heavy-tipping newlyweds. They were going to be disappointed.
“I cannot wait to get out of this thing,” Betsy said.
“Speak for yourself,” Plum said. “I never went to prom.”
—
Lionel and the bird had reserved three suites. The five of them sat on a vast beige sectional couch in one of the living rooms, waiting to be briefed. Betsy paged through the room service menu. The bird pecked at some nuts from the mini-bar. A clutch of Heinekens stood on the coffee table, but only Stoppard was drinking. From his expression it seemed not impossible that this was a first for him.
“All right,” Lionel said. “Here’s what we know, here’s what we don’t know.” He had the manner of a bored tech-support guy explaining something very, very basic. He was standing by the flat-screen TV, which he’d unplugged. He touched it and an image appeared—he was apparently able to project them straight from his mind, which was a trick Quentin hadn’t seen before. “This is the case. Not the actual one, but same make and model.”
It was a handsome but unassuming leather suitcase, pale brown, pleasantly battered, very English, with lots of nice straps and clasps on it. It looked ready for a weekend in the country.
“So we’re looking for Bertie Wooster,” Quentin said.
Nobody laughed.
“We’re pretty sure it’s on the eastern seaboard.” A map appeared on the dead TV, showing the eastern states with possible sites pinpointed and annotated. “We’re also pretty sure that the people who have it don’t know what they have. As far as we know they haven’t been able to open it.”
“Why don’t you just buy it off them?” Plum said. “If they don’t know what it is. You obviously have plenty of money.”
“We tried,” Lionel said. “They don’t know what they have, but they’re pretty sure they
The mood in the limo was slightly hilarious—they might have been a bunch of tourists in the same gondola, passing a flask of schnapps around, and in another minute they’d get to the top of the mountain and ski off in separate directions forever. Except that they wouldn’t. It was strange to think that he might have to trust these people with his life.
“Tell me,” Pushkar said. “Who here went to Brakebills?”
“What’s Brakebills?” Stoppard said brightly.
“Oh my God.”
Betsy looked like she was thinking about jumping out into traffic. “It’s like a mobile fucking
Breakfast Club
in here!”
“I did.” Quentin couldn’t think of any reason to keep it a secret.
“I did.” Plum shrugged. “Sort of.”
The limo slowed down and went over a speed bump. They were almost at the airport already.
“So are we supposed to have specialties, or something?” Plum said. “Is that how this works? I got the impression we were all supposed to have special skills or something.”
“You’re saying you don’t have any special skills,” Betsy said.
“Is that what I said? Probably I’m here because they want somebody who does illusions.”
“I specialize in transport,” Pushkar said crisply. “And some precognition.”
“Stoppard?”
“Devices,” he said proudly. Quentin tentatively tagged him as some kind of prodigy, or precocious anyway. That would explain his youth, and the special treatment from the bird.
“All right,” Betsy said. “I guess I’m offense. Penetration. Damage. What do you do, Quentin?”
She said it as if she were not completely convinced it was his real name.
“Not much,” he said. “My discipline is mending.”
“Mending?” Stoppard said. “The fuck do we need somebody who mends shit?”
“Beats me. You’d have to ask the bird that.”
Quentin very much doubted that that was why he was here. He was doubting it more all the time.
Fortunately it was a short trip: the limo drew up under the lighted awning of the airport Marriott, and bellmen in cheap livery converged on it, probably hoping it contained drunk, heavy-tipping newlyweds. They were going to be disappointed.
“I cannot wait to get out of this thing,” Betsy said.
“Speak for yourself,” Plum said. “I never went to prom.”
—
Lionel and the bird had reserved three suites. The five of them sat on a vast beige sectional couch in one of the living rooms, waiting to be briefed. Betsy paged through the room service menu. The bird pecked at some nuts from the mini-bar. A clutch of Heinekens stood on the coffee table, but only Stoppard was drinking. From his expression it seemed not impossible that this was a first for him.
“All right,” Lionel said. “Here’s what we know, here’s what we don’t know.” He had the manner of a bored tech-support guy explaining something very, very basic. He was standing by the flat-screen TV, which he’d unplugged. He touched it and an image appeared—he was apparently able to project them straight from his mind, which was a trick Quentin hadn’t seen before. “This is the case. Not the actual one, but same make and model.”
It was a handsome but unassuming leather suitcase, pale brown, pleasantly battered, very English, with lots of nice straps and clasps on it. It looked ready for a weekend in the country.
“So we’re looking for Bertie Wooster,” Quentin said.
Nobody laughed.
“We’re pretty sure it’s on the eastern seaboard.” A map appeared on the dead TV, showing the eastern states with possible sites pinpointed and annotated. “We’re also pretty sure that the people who have it don’t know what they have. As far as we know they haven’t been able to open it.”
“Why don’t you just buy it off them?” Plum said. “If they don’t know what it is. You obviously have plenty of money.”
“We tried,” Lionel said. “They don’t know what they have, but they’re pretty sure they
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