Chapter 7: The Job

"Ain't no one got so much money they couldn't use a little more."

-Unknown.

Quintilla walked along the mud path which wound up the shrubby hill.

An old fortress stood on the top of that hill. Grand and sturdy, once, made from proper stonework. Simple, rugged, angular architecture indicative of the continent. Now, over two centuries after its construction, the stone was crumbling and choked with brambles. There were several gaps in the walls which had been plugged with wood, rocks, and other debris.

Eight guard towers overlooked the city below. These days, they served as sniper’s nests, when needs must.

The wooden gates set into the outer walls—over three meters in height—were open, with several of the governor’s personal home guard standing by, rifles shouldered. They wore red coats and angular hats to set themselves apart from the general populace.

Kurko’s heavy footfalls beat a steady rhythm behind her.

The guards gawked at him as they approached.

He wasn’t the subtlest type, that one. If this had been a covert endeavor, she would have brought somebody else. Yin, perhaps. Today, however, she could use the passive air of intimidation that his brawn offered.

She had caught a whiff of a new lead.

And it was in that accursed fucking fortress.

The guards stopped them before they could enter.

“Identify yourselves!” one of the guards said, no doubt trying to sound authoritative despite the quaver in his voice.

“Captain Quintilla Wenezian, of the Tits Up,” Quintilla said. “But you already know that, so stop wasting my time. I have business with the governor.”

The guard flinched.

My reputation has preceded me, then, she thought. Good. All this work is finally paying off.

“Alright, go ahead then,” the guardsman in charge said, and they all stepped aside to let them pass.

Quintilla and Kurko entered into the courtyard of the fortress, which placed them in shade of the beating sun. More guards watched them from the grounds and the walls. If things went wrong today, several dozen of them would come crawling out of the woodworks.

That was too many even for her and Kurko to handle.

She did, in fact, not have an audience with the governor. That had been pure fabrication. She had heard whispers, however. Rumors of a Valerian agent who had arrived in Tumba.

Which meant that, most likely, the empire had a job they needed doing.

The governorship had once been a title bestowed by the Valerian Dynasty. Indeed, they were the ones who had built the fort, and the ones who had founded the city of Tumba in a joint venture with the seafolk, although it had likely been called something different all those centuries ago.

Now, the Aiyek Archipelago was a free place, having cast off the yoke of monarchies and empires. The governor was a living remnant of the old times, a glorified clerk with just enough power to keep one half of the pirates in the city from killing the other half.

They were allowed into the interior of the fortress, Kurko stooping to squeeze through the narrow corridors. He bumped every other magelight with his big head, causing the little light to flit around wildly for a few moments and casting demented, moving shadows across the floor.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Captain?” Kurko asked. His deep rumble of a voice echoed in the empty hallway.

“Good?” Quintilla asked. She grinned. “When have you known me to have any of those?”

“This is too dangerous. You should have sent me alone.”

“Learn to relax a little. I’m tough. You know that.”

Kurko grunted. “Not tough enough to survive a hailstorm of bullets.”

“It won’t come to that,” Quintilla assured him. “Just do as I say, and things will be fine. I’ve got rapport with old Orelius.”

“He hates your guts,” Kurko pointed out.

Quintilla shrugged. “And I hate him. But we do our little dance and we both get our jobs done. Perhaps you could take a page from that book with our new hiree, Mr. Lordling.”

“He’s untrustworthy.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“So you think. I think differently, and I’m your captain. So you will allow him a place on my crew, and you will accept him until such a time as I say otherwise.”

Kurko blew a long plume of frigid air from his nostrils. “He’s weak.”

“He’s not weak,” Quintilla said firmly. “Just… understimulated. Spent his life at a fucking desk, what can you expect? But in the one day since landing on this island, he has not only doled out the street’s justice as according to our little Yin, but has also fist fought a fucking shark. What more do you want from the man?”

“He’s Concordian.”

“And you’re half Concordian. So stop whining.”

Kurko went quiet, and Quintilla nodded with satisfaction as she pressed on.

She proceeded up several flights of stairs, into the main wing of the fortress. She approached the governor’s office, and found two more guards posted outside, along with a pair of armed soldiers who certainly weren’t home guard. Their uniforms were light, and pinned to their chests were the golden sun insignia of the Valerian Dynasty. They were probably made of something a little more pedestrian, like brass, but they still struck a splendid image.

Her contact at Sweet Devil had been right, then.

The guards sized her up as soon as she got close, including the Valerian soldiers, and they moved their rifles into a more ready position.

“State your business,” one of the home guards said. “The governor is occupied. He isn’t seeing any of you riffraff today.”

“You must be mistaken,” Quintilla said, settling into a confident smirk. “Orelius has asked for me.”

Kurko stepped up behind her, and the guards backed up almost imperceptibly. The home guard steeled himself, however, drawing in a large breath and puffing out his chest.

“No, he hasn’t,” the guard said. “We would have been informed. Now, unless you want to end up in a cell, you will be escorted from the premises.”

In two long strides, Kurko was in front of Quintilla. He glared down at the guard with eyes that bugged out of his skull, nostrils flared. His breath froze the tips of the guard’s sparse mustache, and he seemed to shrink into himself, rifle trembling in his hands.

“Was that a threat?” Kurko asked, voice like rough sandpaper. “Or did I hear you wrong?”

Before Quintilla could tell him to stop, Kurko had three rifles pointed at him while the fourth fumbled with his.

The ornate door to the governor’s office came open. A small, bespectacled man stepped out, dark eyes half-hidden beneath bushy eyebrows.

A thinning ring of white hair contrasted his charcoal skin. His features were weathered with age, but tempered with the prolonging qualities of an honest, simple life. He wore a long, dark coat that split at his legs, embroidered with gold threads.

Orelius Chaesim, governor of Tumba and its territories.

“What is all this ruckus about?” the governor asked. His eyes, magnified by the glasses, took in the hallway with a glance. They fixed on Quintilla, and his frown deepened, forming creases around his eyes. “Oh. It’s you.”

He closed the door with a foot.

“Your ever loyal servant,” Quintilla said with a sarcastically exaggerated bow.

“Why are you here?”

“To see you.”

“I didn’t call you here.”

Quintilla smiled and spread her hands. “How fortunate, then, that I thought to come before you even figured to call upon me.”

Orelius snorted. He glanced inside his office. “You know I’d see you hanged for you impudence if it wasn’t for that deadeye of yours, don’t you?”

“I do. I also know that the rope would break before my neck. I’m more stubborn than I look?”

“More stubborn?” Orelius chuckled. “I cannot imagine it.” He sighed and rubbed his balding pate, hand shaky with age. “Fine. Come in, you parasite. But nothing that happens inside will leave you or your crew, got it?”

Quintilla nodded and walked towards the door.

Orelius held up a hand. “No, I’m not sure you do. Because if you speak a fucking word of this to anyone, paladins will come in the night and eviscerate you and yours. Won’t be a fucking speck left of you.”

Quintilla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Got it.”

Orelius glanced over his glasses up at Kurko. “And your… associate must stay here.”

Quintilla looked back at her first mate.

Kurko stiffened. His massive hands clenched into fists.

“You know I can’t agree to that, Captain,” he said. “You’ll be in danger in there. I have a duty to protect you.”

“You do,” Quintilla said. “But you also have a duty to do as you’re told. Right now, I’m telling you to stay put. You know me—I’ll be fine.”

She winked at Kurko and let the governor guide her into the office.

Orelius’s office was more disordered than one might expect by his neat appearance—a reflection of his overtaxed mind. A desk was squirreled away by a window in a corner, most of the available space taken up by dusty maps, volumes, and documents.

A pair of bookshelves stood along the back wall, filled almost to bursting. Most of the room, however, was taken up by a sitting area, several chairs aligned around a circular table. A tray on the table held some sliced fruit, cheese, and crackers.

A man sat in one of the chairs, watching Quintilla enter with a discerning gaze. He wore a set of short, white robes with a striking, scarlet red sash over one shoulder. He wore a full beard, curly and black, head shaved bald. He wore Valeria’s golden sun pinned to his sash, this one truly wrought from gold, as well as a few other gleaming brooches below it.

Orelius put on a wide, false smile as he entered, shepherding Quintilla towards the man with one hand.

“Magistrate Io Moricus, this is Quintilla Wenezian,” he said. “You may remember I spoke of her earlier. I sent for her because I believe she may be able to help with your, ahem, problem.”

A magistrate? This must be important, then.

Magistrates were major political players in Valeria, most with blood ties to the God Ruler herself.

Quintilla kept a straight face, but she had either stepped into a very fortunate situation or a very dangerous one. She suspected a little of both.

She shook the magistrate’s hand, and they all sat.

Moricus cleared his throat and leaned comfortably back in his chair, hands folded before him. His gaze didn’t slip off of Quintilla’s face for a moment.

“I will be succinct,” he said. “Do you have the means to incapacitate a Concordian warship?”