Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [18]
Frey gave him a look. Harkins squirmed. It was transparently obvious that the thought of a gunfight terrified him.
“Diagnostics,” he said, his voice flat. Harkins nodded eagerly. “Fine, stay.”
The pilot’s face split in a huge grin, revealing a set of uneven and lightly browned teeth. “Thank you, Cap’n!”
Frey surveyed the rest of his crew. “What are we all standing around for?” he said, clapping his hands together. “Get to it!”
THEY HURRIED THROUGH THE drenched streets of Marklin’s Reach. The thoroughfares had become rivers of mud, running past the raised wooden porches of the shops and houses. Overhead, strings of electric lightbulbs fizzed and flickered as they were thrown about by the wind. Ragged children peered from lean-to shacks and alleyways where they sheltered. Water ramped off awnings and gurgled down gutters, the racket all but drowning out the clattering hum of generators. The air was thick with the smell of petrol, cooking food, and the clean, cold scent of new rain.
“Couldn’t we go see this guy tomorrow instead?” Pinn complained. “I’d be drier underwater!”
Frey ignored him. They were already cutting it fine. Being held up in Scarwater had put them behind schedule. Quail had been clear in the letter: get here before the end of Howl’s Batten or the offer would go dead. Frey had been lazy about picking up his mail, so he hadn’t gotten the message for some time. With one thing and another, it had all ended up a bit last minute. He was rarely ever certain exactly what date it was, but he had the feeling today was the deadline, and he didn’t want to delay any longer.
“Gonna end up with pneumonia, that’s what’s gonna happen,” Pinn was grumbling. “You try flying when your cockpit’s waist-deep in wet snot.”
Xandian Quail lived in a fortified compound set in a tumbledown cluster of alleys. His house hulked in the darkness, square and austere, its tall, narrow windows aglow. The grinding poverty experienced by the town’s denizens was shut out with high walls and stout gates.
“I’m Darian Frey!” Frey yelled over the noise of the downpour. The guards on the other side of the gate seemed nonplussed. “Darian Frey! Quail’s expecting me! At least he bloody well better be!”
One of the guards scampered over to the house, holding the hood of his slicker. A few moments later he was back and indicated to his companion that he should let them in.
They were escorted beneath the stone porch, where another guard—this one wearing a waistcoat and trousers and sporting a pair of pistols—opened the main door of the house. He had a long face and a patchy black beard. Frey recognized him vaguely from previous visits. His name was Codge.
“Guns,” Codge said, holding out his hand. “And don’t keep any back. You’ll make me real upset if you do.”
Frey hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of going into a situation like this without firepower. He couldn’t think of any reason for Quail to want him dead, but that did little to ease his mind.
It was the mystery that unnerved him. Quail had given no details in his letter. He’d only said that he had a proposition for Frey, for Frey in particular, and that it might make him very rich. That in itself was enough to make Frey suspicious. It also made him curious.
I just have to hear him out, Frey thought to himself. Anyway, they were here now, and he didn’t much fancy tramping back to the Ketty Jay until he’d warmed up a bit.
He motioned with his head to the others. Hand ’em over.
Once he’d collected their weapons, Codge stepped out of the way and let them into the entrance hall, where they stood, dripping. Three more armed guards lounged about in the doorways, exuding an attitude of casual threat.