The Rogue Retrieval by Dan Koboldt Page A

junks and eventually the traders: deep-­hulled ships with two or three masts.
    Chaudri used a pair of compact binoculars to inspect the flags and sigils at their masts. “Kestani and Valteroni craft for the most part,” she said. “I see a few Caralissian traders, too. There’s a Pirean ship—­they’re a long way from home. If Holt came here, he could catch a ride anywhere.”
    â€œHe could still be down there, waiting to catch a ride,” Logan said.
    Kiara checked the radioisotope scanner. The look on her face was frustration, as best Quinn could gauge. He was still trying to work out her tells.
    â€œI don’t like going into a crowded city, but it’s probably worth a look,” she said.
    â€œI know a stable where we can stash the horses,” Logan said.
    â€œGood,” she said. “We’ll need to find the port master, and then we make a round of the captain’s taverns along the waterfront. If Holt passed through, someone might remember him.”
    They reached the city limits in late afternoon, when the setting sun made black skeletons of the masts in the harbor.
    â€œWatch your purses and saddlebags,” Logan said. “It tends to get a bit crowded in here.”
    The city had no wall, which meant no gate—­apparently the Kestani felt comfortable with few land defenses here because of the ships. A steady flow of travelers entered the city from several directions at once, most of them on foot. The occasional wagon or horse cart rumbled past, loaded with tubers or livestock or materials Quinn didn’t even recognize.
    Most of the ­people were Kestani; he could tell by a quick glance because of the colorful garb. There was no wrong answer when it came to colors or styles for Kestani dress. Neon green and bright orange? No problem. Bright blue and rich purple? Go ahead. Somehow the Kestani made it all work. He felt drably attired by comparison, a plain raven in a flock of tropical birds.
    Eventually they were forced to walk the horses, as Alissians pressed around them in the narrow streets of the port city. Quinn looked out across the ­people and the cottages and marveled at how many of them there were. He had been in big cities—­hell, Vegas could have ten times this number on the Strip alone—­but it wasn’t the same. Bayport was a city bursting at the seams. The layout of the city, the garb, the chatter of those passing by, emphasized how much this world differed from his own. They passed the open door of a squat stone building where a wave of heat washed out, along with the steady ring of hammer on metal. A blacksmith. Quinn shook his head. Unbelievable.
    Chaudri was getting into her element. She strolled casually along, chatting with Alissians as they passed, asking questions, even bargaining with a street vendor for some mystery-­meat concoction served hot off a heated iron brazier. Were she not following Quinn’s horse, the woman would probably have lost herself in the crowd and not even cared.
    Logan finally turned them away from one of the main avenues and down a side street to a high stockade fence. He banged on it with an armored fist until a boy unlatched the door to let them in. The fence encircled what seemed to be a sort of horse parking lot. It had a ­couple of guards, several hitching posts, and a smell that Quinn could only describe as authentic. Bits of hay and manure were scattered about the entrance to a small stable crowded with pack animals, cart horses, and a few riding mounts.
    â€œNice little parking lot,” Quinn said.
    â€œYou’re looking at one of the most profitable businesses in port cities,” Chaudri said.
    â€œHorse and buggy storage,” Quinn said. He was dubious.
    â€œThey charge to store the horses, and then they rent them out during the day,” Chaudri said. “Not ours, of course.”
    â€œWe pay extra, I’m guessing,” Quinn