Read Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) Online
Authors: Kathleen McClure
GIDEON PICKED UP
the tail two blocks from the tram station. A quick glance in a grocer's window told him his shadow was small, clad in the universal urban camouflage of patchwork trousers and hooded tunic he recalled from his own youth on the streets of Tesla.
Gideon remembered a time he would have given the dodger a shot at his wallet, but in those days he'd possessed more than a handful of starbucks and a draco, so instead of lingering at a dark corner staring at street signs or wandering lost amongst the few pedestrians out in the rain, he decided to shake the kid.
It was quite the surprise, then, when the kid refused to be shaken.
Admittedly, the rain put a damper on Nike's nightlife, making the pickings slim, so Gideon countered the dearth of pockets by detouring down a narrowly winding foot-lane bearing all the markings of the night trade, which never failed to provide a wide variety of marks for a dedicated dipper.
As he meandered down the lane, looking into various windows and greeting the odd brave soul under an umbrella, he found himself propositioned more than once, and not only by the professionals. One, a woman of means, offered him a tempting sum for a few hours of companionship. He could even bring the draco along.
She was an attractive woman, sleek and lean and wearing her silvered hair in a straight rain down her back but six years of sexual drought notwithstanding, Gideon still felt the sting from the earlier rejection on the tram, plus there was that dodger on his tail, so he refused, offering his not insincere regrets before moving on.
And so did his shadow, who ignored the trove of pleasure seekers and their wallets just to keep up with him.
Maybe he should have taken a tour past a sweet shop or bakery but then, as time passed and the game continued, he found he didn't mind the company. In fact, compared to the dire implications of the attack at the airfield, the dodger was proving more distraction than a worry.
The fact he needed a distraction at all was something of a worry, though, and not one he could ever have anticipated.
It was only as he continued to wander the rain-drenched streets — their muted watercolor of motion and energy a stark contrast to the suns-bleached calcification of the Barrens — that Gideon began to find freedom to be, not unpleasant, exactly, but certainly uncomfortable.
This truth hit home with particular strength when he stopped smack in the middle of crossing a street, not because of any oncoming traffic, but because he'd been counting his steps and reached 7,852, which was the maximum safe distance a Morton inmate could walk from his work party and expect to get back alive.
"These walls are not your prison. The desert is your prison. The suns are your prison. The demands of your own bodies are your prison."
Such was Warden Simkins' standard greeting to new inmates, the single warning he allowed for those taking their first enforced breath of desiccated air. They could either listen from the get or—
"
—
consign your bones to the suns. I will waste none of my officers on seeking wayward inmates."
Gideon listened.
Others had not.
The ring of a rickshaw's bell and a harried shout got him moving, but once he reached the safety of the curb he stopped again, this time to quell a bubbling resentment for the other people rushing, kvetching, laughing or cursing their way through these rain-polished streets for not knowing what it was to be so constrained.
He resented them for not having to calculate how many mouthfuls of Morton Kibble one could swallow before another inmate tried to steal your rations. He resented them for not knowing how many sips of water one could afford to drink at once because waiting risked loss to evaporation or theft.
Most of all, he hated them for never having to hesitate before taking that 7,853
rd
step.
But then he caught a hint of motion at the corner of his eye, noted a darker shape in the darkness beyond a window to his left, and the game of dodger vs. mark — a game he'd once played from the other side — brought him back to the here and now and he continued on his way, not stopping until he turned onto Carroll Square. The square was made up of a mix of small retail businesses, at least two pubs and the Elysium Hotel, all surrounding the neighborhood's agri-center.
"What do you think," he murmured to Elvis, “do we keep him following in the wet or settle in for the night?"
Elvis snorted and shook his head.
Gideon took this to mean the draco didn't give a broken talon they were being followed, he just wanted to get someplace warm and dry.
"Settle in, it is," Gideon said, aiming for the Elysium Hotel, which had been advertised on the tram station kiosk as being Keeper run, which in its turn meant clean beds and decent food, much of it likely grown in this very square.
“
There's the place
," he said, louder this time, so his shadow would be sure to hear, then adding, more to himself than his unknown shadow, "Hope they have private baths."
Elvis flapped in agreement. Or at least, Gideon took it to be agreement.
* * *
"There's the place."
Hearing the mark's voice, Mia pulled back into the nearest recessed doorway and waited for him to enter the hotel. And what a relief he'd finally stopped.
At first, she'd hoped for a shot back in Red Crystal Alley, none being so easy to rob as them in the throes of carefully negotiated passion, but he'd passed through the alley with no more than a smile for a lonely Jane, so Mia continued after him.
There'd been one point he'd stopped dead in the middle of Chaucer and she thought sure to see him flattened by an oncoming rickshaw. Despite the fact the mark's untimely demise might give Mia a better shot at the draco, she'd still been on the verge of rushing out to push him onward when the driver's bell woke the man from his stupor.
Lucky for her he'd taken time to recover, as Mia also needed a second to calm her racing heart.
By the time he'd moved on, she was more than half convinced she'd be doing the draco a favor by removing it from the suicidal maniac.
But now, finally, he entered the Elysium Hotel and Mia remained in hiding, watching and waiting until,
honeycomb!
A light went on in the second floor, street side. Not as good as one of the alley-facing rooms, but better than those facing the pub on the other side, which would be busy well past fourteen midnight. And with the agri-center between the hotel and the buildings on the opposite side of the square, anyone looking out a window would see nothing but trees, trellises, and rain-towers.
She was about to slip out of her doorway shelter and make for the alley when she spied movement on the other side of the street, which was interesting.
It was interesting because the movement appeared to be another individual, dressed in clothes as dark as hers and, like her, moving from shadow to shadow, right before darting into the selfsame alley Mia planned to use for her own purposes.
Someone else was following her mark!
Even as she realized this, the someone stopped dead in the light of the last street lamp before the alley and turned in her direction. Though she could see no face, and in fact suspected that face wore a mask, she did see, quite clearly, the hand which rose and pointed up to the newly lit room. After a measured pause, the hand dropped down but the finger remained pointing straight up so Mia could easily see it shake back and forth in a distinct 'no, no, no' fashion. Then the hand fell, the figure turned and, in seconds disappeared into the blackness of the alley.
Most people, faced with such specific opposition would shrug and move on to the next mark.
Most people didn't have to deal with Fagin Ellison.
Oh no, you don't
, she thought at her rival, already adjusting her plan of attack.
No one's getting that draco but me.
* * *
Safely hidden by the alley's shadows, Nahmin Soor, General Rand's sometimes-valet, made a few hasty changes to his appearance. This was his second such transformation of the evening, having already discarded the coveralls of the down-on-his-luck rigger from Quinn's tram, leaving him dressed in matte-black garb suitable for tracking one's quarry through the night-time streets of Nike.
Now that Quinn had gone to ground, Nahmin needed something a bit more flamboyant.
The hooded mask came off first, and he used it to dry off as much as possible before tossing it into a nearby compost bin.
Next he reversed his jacket, trading the near-invisible matte black for an eye-searing puce which, with a twitch of two buttons, lengthened into a full tunic.
From one deep pocket he drew a length of blinding yellow fabric, which he wrapped into an elegant pagri for his head and less than four minutes after entering the alley, Nahmin emerged a changed man.
As he approached the doors, he gave the street beyond a casual glance, though in truth he wasn't concerned by the young thief who'd also been following Quinn. The little one's tenacity impressed, but any dodger worth his lock-picks would be smart enough to know when a mark was lost, and move on. Though why any thief would be interested in the ragged ex-soldier in the first place confounded him.
The same might be said of his employer, were Nahmin not also aware of the threat Gideon Quinn presented. Enough of a threat Nahmin had protested allowing Rey and Ronan, the Pradesh twins, first attempt at containment, but his employer would not be swayed.
Their failure had come as no surprise.
Still, that failure was his opportunity and, with one last scan of the street, Nahmin entered the Elysium Hotel to finish the job.
THEY HAD PRIVATE
baths.
Private baths the size of his cell, with an actual tub and doors that locked on the
inside
.
Gideon clicked at Elvis, who flapped over to perch on the edge of the sink, then let his dripping wet pack thud to the tile floor.
He stared a moment longer, then stepped back into the main room, furnished with the sort of sturdy, utilitarian furniture one might expect of Keepers. The place certainly didn't run to extras, but the low-framed bed with its equally low stand and reading lamp were well made and, with wheat-gold walls set off by tapestries, rugs and bedding in variegated autumn tones, provided a veritable banquet of textures to Gideon's sensory-deprived diet.
The room also featured a meditation nook should the traveler wish to indulge, but Gideon doubted he’d make use of the space. His preferred method of stress relief tended to involve less sitting and more punching.
Dani loved meditation, he recalled. Then again, someone who regularly jumped out of airships with nothing but a slender tether between herself and a fatal splat would need to maintain a certain level of Zen.
He wondered if she still meditated, or if she was still in the Corps — or still alive.
"Stop it," he said aloud, forcing his thoughts away from the woman he'd lost (
sent away
), and towards something more productive.
Because if he was going to think about anyone, it should be Jessup Rand and the two mercenaries Rand set on Gideon the second he stepped off the barge, or John Pitte who’d been another of Rand’s weapons, or the dodger who’d trailed him to the hotel…
Or, he turned to look at that bathroom again, he could not think of anyone at all. For this one night, he could just enjoy the moment and this room. This clean, private, utterly empty—
The sound of a fist on wood broke into his determined reverie, reminding Gideon he'd asked the Welcoming Keeper to have dinner delivered. Out of long habit he opened the door with caution, but found only another Keeper, this one young and slightly flushed and, most importantly, carrying a tray crowded with filled dishes.
Gideon could have kissed him. Fortunately for his dignity, he restrained himself and merely took hold of the tray, thanked the Keeper and closed the door. Then he opened the door again and tipped the young man, still standing there and looking a bit shocked. He closed the door again, latched it, and then froze in place, suddenly indecisive.
The food — some sort of soup with a bright, citrusy scent, warm naan and a plate featuring masala dosa and skewers of roast meat (he thought it might be bison or, no, aurochs — but who cared because
meat
), was reducing him near to tears.
But then, there was that bathtub — long enough for even his long legs — begging to be filled.
He looked at the tray, then at the bathroom door, then back at the tray.
Several minutes later, Gideon eased into a tub filled with steaming hot water. The tray was set on the floor, within easy reach.
He could only hope whoever was following him had been a pickpocket, willing to move onto another target. Or, if it were one of Rand's operatives, that they would do the sensible thing and wait until he turned out the lights to try anything stupid, because if anyone dared interrupt him now, he would happily kill them.
* * *
It was something of a surprise to Mia she'd been able to use the alley approach after all but, seeing as the competition had taken the front door, she figured there was naught to lose.
At least, she assumed the gaudily dressed individual prancing out of the alley was the same slick operator who'd entered it,
after
warning her off.
The cheek!
For certain the fop's height and build matched that of the masked man, even if the clothes and walk were completely different. So different that Mia questioned the instincts telling her this was the same person. Then the man paused at the inn's door to scan the street with a competence belying the frivolous drapings, confirming her suspicions.
Since he entered the hotel with no further admonitions, she trusted he'd not seen her and made a careful dash to the alley, keeping always to the shadows.
Once there, she assessed the building.
Like much of Carroll Square, the Elysium was constructed of granite blocks during the Second Expansion.
Mia loved Second Expansion buildings. Not because of the design so much, but because the structure's age meant older, softer mortar.
Older, softer mortar crumbled, making a good place for a person to grasp onto should this person, for various reasons, need to scale the structure.
Admittedly, she preferred this sort of climb in dryer weather, but lucky for her, the alley also featured a compost bin directly under the lowest landing of the inn's fire escape. In a tick she was on the escape's landing. Another two ticks saw her climbing over the second-floor railing to the narrow ledge, barely half the width of her feet, and her fingers trusting to the lovely, crumbly mortar to keep her from falling.
* * *
In the corridor outside Gideon Quinn's room, Bren, the young Keeper who'd delivered Gideon’s meal, contemplated the hefty tip. Keepers didn't go in for this sort of thing, but the man had simply thrust the money at him and shut the door with nary a word.
He hadn’t even commented on the soup bowl being not as full as it ought, or that the soup that should have been in the bowl was soaking into Bren's tunic.
Not that it was his fault, mind. It was the guest in a horror of a green jacket, not watching where he was going, so he knocked right into Bren's elbow and upset the soup. Though it was also true the fellow had been apologetic enough, helping to mop up the mess, mostly by fluttering his handkerchief about so much Bren thought it a wonder nothing else spilled.
He'd even given Bren a half-star for his trouble, which he needn't have done, thus making this an unusually profitable night.
Clumsy, and no taste in clothing, but decent enough.
* * *
From where he lurked on the stairs leading to the inn's third floor, Nahmin listened to Bren's whistling retreat before stepping back into the hall outside Quinn’s door. Dosing the soup in transit was a calculated risk, but since his quarry chose to eat in the privacy of his room, some creativity was required.
Now to contact his employer. By the time the carriage arrived at the hotel, the spiked soup would have done its work.
Still, as Nahmin made his way back downstairs, he couldn't shake the sensation that, by leaving the target still breathing, he was in some way cheating.