Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [19]
“Time for a new perfume, Jez,” Frey quipped. “I do have a way with animals, don’t I?” she said, looking mildly put out.
Quail’s house was a marked contrast to the dirty streets that had led to it. The floor and walls were tiled in black granite. Thick rugs had been laid underfoot. Coiled-brass motifs ran along the walls toward two curving staircases. Between the staircases was a large and complicated timepiece. It was a combination of clock and calendar, fashioned in copper and bronze and gold. Behind the hands were rotating discs with symbols for all ten months of the year and each of the ten days of the week. Frey was slightly relieved to see that the calendar read Queensday Thirdweek, Howl’s Batten—the last day of the month.
“Just you,” said Codge, motioning up the stairs and looking at Frey. Frey shucked off his slicker and handed it to Pinn, who took it absently. The young pilot’s attention had been snared by the four beautiful, seductively dressed women who had appeared in one of the doorways to observe the newcomers. They giggled and smiled at Frey as he headed for the stairs. He gave them a gallant bow, then took the hand of the foremost to kiss.
“You can butter up the whores later. The boss is waiting,” Codge called. One of the women pooched out her lip at him, then favored Frey with a dirty smirk.
“He’ll have to come down again, though, won’t he?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Good evening, ladies,” said Frey. “I’m sure my friend over there would love to entertain you until I return.”
Pinn licked his palm, smoothed down the little thatch of hair atop his potatolike head, and put on his best nonchalant pose. The whores eyed him, unimpressed.
“We’ll wait.”
“FREY!” SAID XANDIAN QUAIL, as the captain entered the study. “Dramatically late, I see. I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Far as I’m concerned, a margin for error is just wasted space,” Frey said, then shook hands with a hearty camaraderie far above what he actually felt for the man. Quail offered a glass of wine and did a magnificent job of not noticing the trail of muddy footprints that Frey had brought in with him.
Frey sat down and admired the room while Quail poured the drinks. The front of Quail’s desk was carved in the likeness of a huge cloud eagle, stern and impressive. An ornate and valuable brass barometer hung behind it, the arrow pointing firmly toward RAIN. The windows had complicated patterned bars set on the outside, for security and decoration alike. A black iron candelabra hung from the ceiling, bulbs glowing dimly with electric power. The walls were paneled in mahogany and lined with books. Frey read some of the titles but didn’t recognize any. It was hardly a surprise. He rarely read anything more complicated than the sensationalist broadsheets they sold in the cities.
Quail gave Frey a crystal glass of rich red wine, then sat opposite him with a glass of his own. He’d probably been handsome once, but no longer. A fiery crash in a fighter craft had seen to that. Now half his bald head was puckered with scar tissue, and there was a small metal plate visible on one side of his skull. A brassy orb sat in the socket where his left eye should have been, and his left arm was entirely mechanical.
In spite of this, he carried himself like an aristocrat, and dressed like one too. He wore a brocaded black jacket with a stiff collar, and his patent leather shoes shone with polish. Wet, sweaty, and disheveled, Frey was unimpressive by comparison.
“I’m glad you made it,” said Quail. “Another day and I’d have offered my proposition elsewhere. Time is a factor.”
“I just came to hear what you have to say,” said Frey. “Make your pitch.”
“I have a job for you.”
“I know your rates,” Frey said. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I’m not selling the information. This one’s for free.