“We’re just a transport,” she said, a little too urgently. This was all falling apart. Their ruses depended on the officiating Imperial captain being uninterested in anything more than properly filling out his reports before moving on again. Hankirk was all sorts of interested.
And Dug was barely content to go along with the act as it was. He always argued that it saved time to open necks and send bodies headfirst over the railing. Talis sensed him, still as a stone behind her, growing impatient.
“Freelance? With a black hull and canvas.” Hankirk’s tone was full of opinion. One of the officers who had been sent off to search Wind Sabre returned and whispered in Hankirk’s ear. He nodded stiffly to the officer, and the search party returned to The Serpent Rose. The look of disappointment was obvious. They hadn’t found anything, or anyone.
That left eight Imperials plus Hankirk on Talis’s ship.
“That’s right,” she said, running a hand through her hair. The guards, still holding her back with their rifles, pushed aggressively at her motion. She shot them a scalding look before continuing. “Just not as fond of the gold trim as you are. Licenses are in order, as you’ll no doubt want to see.”
Hankirk spared a glance at Dug. “And does your refugee have the official paperwork to be on this side of the border?”
Talis tensed. Hankirk’s men chuckled, not so animated that they lost their disciplined demeanor, but to her it was as loud as tearing canvas. Heat pulsed off Dug like someone had opened a furnace door. Talis shifted her weight into one hip, moving subtly in front of him to warn against any action he might be considering.
“He’s got his license stamped for all four territories, if that’s what you mean.”
Not quite true. Dug was unwelcome in his own people’s skies, but Hankirk had no right to that information. Or to know how close the word ‘refugee’ was to the truth.
Hankirk wrinkled his nose, then opened the dossier. He feigned scanning the page, but when he spoke he glared at her directly. He’d memorized the contents. The motions seemed rehearsed.
“You accepted a contract for an unlicensed salvage in this sector, and you are acting as the agent of one Jasper, a Breaker goods receiver operating out of the Corrugated District of Subrosa. Under this contract, you agreed to salvage an ancient pewter and pearl ring from the flotsam and return it to the Breaker man for the promised sum of thirty-five thousand silver presscoins.”
She felt her face contort with surprise, and quickly tried to guide it into a look of confusion. Her mind raced. Superstitious, she hadn’t even told her crew how big the payoff was, much less blabbed about it to anyone in Subrosa. Sure, she visited the bars after taking the deal, but no matter how deep in her cups she got there was never any doubt that she didn’t trust a single bastard in that bottom-hanged black-market city. So how’d Hankirk know? Jasper wasn’t likely to be intimidated into divulging client information by any show of force or authority. His business depended on it.
If Hankirk noted her reaction, he didn’t say. He continued, “Of course I don’t have to remind you that any items in the flotsam layer are the exclusive property of the Empire, from the moment they cross into Cutter skies, until such a time as they orbit into another territory.”
There was only one way Talis could think of that Hankirk might know about the deal.
Tisker stepped forward, protesting. “Look, clearly we have some sort of misunderstanding.”
Imperial hands moved forward to intercept him, rifles raised. Tisker put his palms up and stopped talking.
“What you clearly misunderstand,” Hankirk said, still addressing Talis, “is that I have you tightly pegged, and nothing is going to prevent me from searching your ship plank-by-plank, finding the contraband, and bringing you all to hang for your crimes in the capital province.”
Talis sensed Dug’s tension like a physical force pushing against her back. He hadn’t moved, but she knew he was thinking about the knives tucked up his coat sleeves. She had to figure a way to defuse this situation and get away clean, or it was going to come to violence. Fun as that might be, and satisfying, attacking an Imperial crew was no way to untangle themselves from consequence.
Where’s Sophie?
She manifested what she hoped was a charming and not venomous smile. “Okay, fair enough. It’s like you said. We have a ring.”
Now Tisker tensed, too. Trust me, she willed him silently.
“You want the ring. We want our thirty-five thousand silver.” She took a casual step forward and found confidence in the fact that no one pushed at her with their weapons again. “The deal can still be made. Surely you were going to be paying Jasper more than that. His commission rate still the highest in Subrosa?”
Hankirk chuckled and shut the file.
So. She was right. The job had been a setup.
Knowing that didn’t make her feel any better.
Hankirk closed the gap between them, and the two riflemen moved aside. Shorter than her by half a hand, he had to look up a bit to meet her gaze.
“Look at my ship, Talis. First of its class. I told you I’d be taken care of. Look at the strength of my crew. I will take the ring, and I will bring you to face the only reward that you deserve.” He looked at Dug over her shoulder and said, “Justice.”
Knuckles popped, this time her own. Her arm tensed to swing a hook at his pompous face. If they were going to get in a fight, let her please, please, at least break that pretty nose of his.
But an outcry
