The Rogue Retrieval (25 page)

“Gotcha!” Mendez said.

Shouts came from the woods behind; the Landorian patrol had spotted them. There came a rumbling sound from somewhere upstream, too, and it sounded ominous. A wall of churning, muddy water swept around the bend upstream.

“Move!” Mendez shouted. He tugged at the bridle of Chaudri's mare and half dragged them up the bank.

Logan did the same with Kiara's, but the bank was slick with mud. He couldn't get purchase. Then the muddy wave was on them. It swept over the back of the mare, nearly took the lieutenant out of her saddle. She shouted and spurred her mount, hard. Somehow the mare found a grip and surged out, dragging Logan with them.

He dropped the bridle and threw himself back on his own horse. They clattered away as the water surged up over the banks. Four Landorian horsemen appeared on the far side and had to wheel their horses to the side to avoid riding in. That was some good horsemanship. Timber and detritus rushed past in the heavy current. There was no crossing now, and the Landorians knew it. That was one problem solved.

“Time to get our prisoner back,” Logan said. “Mendez, with me.”

They thundered over the ridge . . . only to find Thorisson right on the other side. He'd ridden right into the drooping branches of a large tree and gotten stuck. The more he struggled, the more the branches clung to him and the packhorse. He was tangled up and cursing mightily. The sight of it made Logan laugh. Thorisson continued to thrash until Logan and Mendez were nearly on top of him. He heard them approach, but couldn't quite turn around for a look.

“Hello again,” Logan said.

Thorisson's whole body seemed to slump; though the branches held him mostly upright. The packhorse whinnied in dismay.

“Nice of him to wait for us,” Mendez said.

“Wasn't it?”

Kiara and Chaudri rode up next; their horses were still soaked from the creek crossing.

“Wow, a sticky willow!” Chaudri said. “Always wanted to see one of these. From a safe distance, obviously.”

It resembled a weeping willow, except that the leaves and whip-­like branches were a dusty brown color. They were coated with tiny hooks, almost like Velcro. And they latched on to
anything
—­clothing, leather, skin, hair. The limbs were deceptively strong, so even though it was always tempting to try to jerk free, doing so only caused more branches to come down on top of you.

As Thorisson had discovered.

“What do you think, Lieutenant?” Logan asked. “Can we leave him?”

“He
did
cause me to ruin my favorite riding boots,” Kiara said. She turned her horse. “Let's go.”

Logan and Mendez went to follow. They hadn't gone twenty yards before Thorisson started shouting.

“Don't leave me here!” he cried.

Kiara sighed and reined in. “I suppose I want the packhorse back, at least. We might as well get him out, too.”

“How the hell do we do that?” Mendez muttered.

“We'll have to cut the branches,” Chaudri said. “As high up as we can reach.”

The rescue took the better part of an hour. Logan and Mendez worked methodically under Chaudri's direction, cutting branches and handing them back to the others. Kiara and Chaudri stacked them well away from the tree and the other horses. Eventually they extracted both the horse and rider. Mendez held a crossbow at him while the others removed every twig and leaf that still clung to him or the packhorse. It was tiresome work, but they had to be certain no bits of sticky willow tagged along. Otherwise, the gateway's biological scanners would lock them in Alissia until they were clean. Granted, the company had brought a ­couple of leaves through for study.

They'd already spawned a new generation of industrial adhesives, the patent revenues for which had underwritten the last few missions in Alissia.

Kiara had them under way soon after, just in case the Landorian patrol had found a way around. Thorisson's escape attempt had brought them right to the base of the mountains. They made camp after a few hours. Tomorrow they'd try to cross via the smuggler's pass.

For a considerable bribe, Landorian smugglers would guide you through narrow mountain passes into Felara. Logan had dealt with them before, but never with a group this large, or a prisoner in tow.

He had told the lieutenant that it would be a piece of cake.

Maybe it actually will be.

 

“Honor among thieves is a romantic notion, one that criminals here have yet to stumble across.”

—­
R
.
H
OLT,
“M
Y
T
IME W
ITH
T
IONI
C
UTPURSES
”

CHAPTER 23

THE SMUGGLER CODE

B
y sunset, Moric and the other two magicians were exhausted. Keeping Kiara's team on their horses while they fled, leading them to the cutoff point, and flooding the creek had taken a lot out of them. Moric had retrieved their Tioni mules; that was about all he could manage. Leward had been dozing off while they waited. Sella put her customary wards around their campsite, but even she looked a bit drowsy.

All three would need to sleep soon, and probably for a good day or two. Even so, they monitored the progress of Kiara's group while they rode toward the mountains.

Moric made an unpleasant sound.

“What's wrong?” Quinn asked.

“I thought perhaps they'd take one of the main passes, at which point we'd have some assurance of their safety.”

“Maybe they're lost,” Quinn said, though he knew that they weren't. The creek crossing seemed to have put the comm units on a bender, but from the bits and pieces he'd picked up, Kiara had a destination in mind. He couldn't share that with Moric, of course.

“They're probably aiming for a smuggler's route through the mountains,” Moric said. “It's a quieter way to slip into Felara. Lower profile, which some find appealing.”

Low profile. That had to be Logan's idea.

“How far is it from here to the smuggler's pass?” he asked.

“A few hours' ride, no more, if memory serves,” Moric said. He yawned and reclined on the grass.

He could probably catch them. Maybe in time to warn them about the danger the smugglers had to offer. Once Kiara got through the gateway, who knew what kind of draconian measures she'd put in place? With Holt in a position of power, she might think it safer to seal the gateway from the other side. No telling how long he could be stuck here. Or what Thorisson might say about him.

Then again, if he went back with them, they might never let him return.
And then I'll never know if I could have learned the magic here.

“How long will you need to sleep?” he asked.

“At least a full day,” Moric said. “I hate to let the Prime down, but we've done all that we can for his friends.”

Holt had hired the Enclave to make sure they ended up as far away from Valteron as possible. They were no friends of his. But they'd become something like that for Quinn.

“Let me fulfill the contract,” he said.

Sella perked up. “Absolutely not. You're only here to observe. Nothing more.”

Damn. He'd thought her asleep already.

“Look, we all know I'm not an ordinary student,” Quinn said. “And Moric's in enough trouble with the council. How is a botched job going to look to them?”

“Not well,” Moric admitted. “But I'm not sure what you think you can do to help them.”

“I can make sure they reach Felara.”

“What if there's a problem?” Moric asked.

“I'm a grown man, and I can be resourceful.”

Sella shook her head. “This is too dangerous for him.”

“And this coming from someone who recently threw me off a waterfall,” Quinn said.

“There were safeguards for that,” Sella countered. “And I didn't throw you. You fell on your own, probably because you were distracted by that—­”

“All right, all right, I fell,” Quinn said quickly. No need to bring up
that
subject. “But it didn't work. Nothing has worked. Maybe it takes more to bring the ability out in me.”

“Maybe you're not trying hard enough,” she said.

“I appreciate everything you've tried to do, Sella,” he said. He smiled at her. An earnest smile this time. “But I need more. I think we both know that.”

She frowned, as if mulling this over. Leward had closed his eyes and now began to snore.

“Overextended himself again, I'll wager,” Moric said. “That leaves just the two of us to decide, and I vote against it. You're too valuable to risk on a contract job. The Prime will understand.”

“Well I vote
for
it,” Quinn said.

“You don't get a vote,” Moric said.

“Why not? I'm part of this mission, too.”

He sighed. “Fine. One for, one against.”

Sella looked at Quinn for a long time, her face unreadable. “I'm in favor,” she said at last.

“Sella!” Moric said.

“The boy wants it bad enough, I'll grant him that. Never thought he'd stick it out in my class in the first place. Let him try playing the hero.” She closed her eyes again, and muttered to herself. “If the black hearts of smugglers can't bring a spark out of him, nothing will.”

Moric glared at her, but gave over. “Very well, Quinn,” he said. “Follow them to Felara. The concealment spell should hold that long. But I don't want you taking any foolish risks. The moment they set foot on Felaran soil, your job is done.”

One of his jobs was done, at least. Quinn buckled on his sword and threw his riding cloak over his shoulders. “How will I find you again?” he asked.

“We should be here at least another day. I'll set some wards to protect us, but you'll be able to cross them.”

“What if it takes longer?”

“Try not to let that happen.”

“It might,” Quinn said. “And I don't think I can just wander around asking the way to the Enclave.”

Moric yawned. “A fair point. Come over here, lad,” he said.

Quinn went and knelt by him. Sella had fallen asleep and began snoring at an ear-­shattering volume.

Moric took a leather cord from around his neck. It held a pale white stone, teardrop-­shaped and wrapped in wire. “Don't lose this,” he said.

Quinn took it, surprised at how light the stone was. “What is it?”

“A wayfinder stone. It points the way to the Enclave.”

Quinn put the cord around his neck, and lifted the stone in the palm of his hand. The teardrop quivered and spun, pointing southwest. “Outstanding,” he said.

“I get the feeling that you have other business besides our mission,” Moric said.

Quinn kept his face neutral, but didn't answer.

Moric stifled another yawn. “Don't stay away too long. I'm not finished with your training.”

“Don't worry, Moric,” Quinn said. “Neither am I.”

T
here was no formal marking to the smuggler's pass—­they certainly didn't want to make it easier for outsiders to find them—­but Logan could read the signs. A wagon rut here, some broken reeds there. Rocks arranged a certain way along an embankment to prevent cart wheels from going over the edge. Movement along a ridge to the south only confirmed it; someone was watching them.

They encountered the first checkpoint a quarter mile later. Two men lounged against a boulder, spears propped casually beside them. They wore steel discs over boiled leather. A heavy form of armor, but it came cheap. Neither had shaven in some time, and their hair was matted under dented steel helms.

“Sentries,” Logan said over the comm unit.

“They don't look like much,” Mendez said. “Should we take them out?”

“Do that and they'll cut us down from the cliffs,” Logan said. “I'm sure they have a bowman up there.”

“We should try not to pay very heavily at the first touch,” Kiara said.

Logan leaned close to Thorisson. “Don't try anything. You'll never get out of these passes without us.”

Thorisson shrugged. Not promising anything. Logan was pretty sure he must have something up his sleeve, but couldn't figure out what.

The smuggler's pass comprised a series of narrow trails that wound through gaps in the mountains. There would be more seemingly random encounters, more checkpoints. Logan didn't recognize these two men, and that worried him. They had a bottle of dark stuff with them, probably
jennah
. Maybe they were drunk. That would help.

“Think you must have lost your way, m'lady,” one of them called.

“We're headed to Felara,” Kiara said.

“Better try one of the passes.”

“We'd prefer to get there quietly,” she said. “We'll make it worth your while.”

The man looked them over, rubbing his beard the whole time. He had the most crooked set of teeth Logan had ever seen on a man. It was hard not to stare. “We might know a quiet way through. Going to cost you, though.”

“How much?” Kiara asked.

“Fifteen silvers.”

She scoffed at him. “Three coppers.”

“Th-­three coppers?” he stuttered. He burst into a raucous laugh, elbowing his companion. “She thinks she'll get by with three coppers!”

The other man leaned closer and whispered something.

Snaggletooth grinned wickedly. “What about three coppers, and you do a little something for us? Private, like.”

“How about I ask my men not to put a quarrel in each of you?”

The moment she said it, Logan and Mendez raised crossbows, leveling them at the men's chests. At this range, the bolts would cut through the steel and leather like it was plastic. Each of the sentries took a step back, their hands involuntarily reaching for their spears.

“Don't do it,” Logan said.

The one who'd spoken put up his hands. He didn't look happy, but he held fast. “Five coppers,” he ventured.

“Four coppers,” Kiara said. “And only because you have the balls to negotiate with a crossbow on you.” She took out a small purse and tossed it to him.

The man caught it, shook it, and stood back so that they had room to ride past. “Right this way, m'lady.”

Logan cleared his throat. He wasn't about to let her be the first one to go by these jokers. He nudged his mount past her and trotted ahead to scout. These passes were going to be a tactical nightmare. Narrow trails, blind turns, and gods knew how many smugglers lurking about. The thought of it made his back itch between the shoulder blades. There wasn't an immediate trap here, as far as he could see, though, so he turned and gave the signal for all clear.

One checkpoint down, probably eight or nine to go.

Q
uinn spotted the two men with spears, and asked his mule to slow. Politely, of course.

They were leaning against a boulder sharing a bottle. They noticed him approaching and put their helms back on. At least they left the spears leaning against the boulder; a lone rider on a mule wasn't much of a threat.
Good, let them think that.
The one had some trouble getting his helmet on. He straightened it with the exaggerated care of a man trying to hide just how drunk he was.

Even better.

Quinn put on his grin and hailed them. “Here's just the two fellows I've been looking for.”

The more sober of the two sauntered out from the boulder. “Think you must be lost, fella.” He slurred some of the words. Whether it was from the drink or the horrific set of teeth, Quinn couldn't say.

He bowed his head from the saddle. “I don't think so, my good man. I'm trying to catch up with some friends. Did they come this way?”

“Can't say I remember.”

“Here, perhaps this will help,” Quinn said. He snapped his fingers and held up a fat round coin—­he'd lifted Moric's purse before he left. The coin danced across Quinn's fingers. Then he flicked it toward the smuggler. It arced through the air, spinning with that high-­pitched ring of metal.

The man caught it in one hand without dropping the bottle. Maybe he was a little more sober than he appeared. He bit the coin between his teeth, then tossed it to the other one, who managed to trip over his spear while trying to catch it. Quinn pretended not to notice.

The sober one shook his head. He looked back at Quinn and crossed his arms. “Might be some folks came through. What's it to you?”

“I'm trying to catch up with them. Can I pass?”

“Sure, for five coppers.”

Quinn did a quick calculation, figuring on a few more stops like these. No doubt they'd get more expensive, too. “Tell you what,” he said. “How about a little wager? You look like the gambling type.”

The man straightened. Apparently he took it as a compliment. “I've been known to make a bet or two. What's the wager?”

Quinn dismounted from his mule and asked it to stay put. “Could I borrow that bottle?” he asked.

The man frowned. “Fine.” He took a last pull and tossed the bottle to Quinn. It was a crude glass, but somewhat transparent. The opening was about as wide as his thumb. That would work.

“I've got another copper here,” Quinn said. He produced the coin from his sleeve and let it dance across his fingers. “Bet you I can get it into this bottle without breaking it.”

“In there? Good luck.”

“If I do, you get the bottle back with one copper. If I don't, I'll pay the full five.”

The man pondered this a moment, and spat to one side. “If you don't, you pay eight.”

“Deal,” Quinn said. He hefted the bottle. “What was in here, anyway?”

“Valteroni gold.”

He sniffed the lid; it smelled of stronger, coarser stuff. “If you say so.”

He laid the coin across the top of it. “Hmm. Doesn't want to fit.”

“You don't say,” the smuggler said.

Quinn laid his palm across the coin and held it there while he put the bottom of the bottle against his chest. He made a fist with his free hand.

“No breaking it, now,” the man said.

“No worries,” Quinn said. He pounded his fist against the hand across the bottle. A coin shot into the bottle and rattled around the bottom. “There we are.” He tossed the bottle back to the man.