town’s denizens was shut out with high walls and stout gates.
‘I’m Darian Frey!’ Frey yelled over the noise of the downpour. The guards on the other side of the gate seemed nonplussed. ‘Darian Frey! Quail’s expecting me! At least, he bloody well better be!’
One of the guards scampered over to the house, holding the hood of his slicker. A few moments later he was back and indicated to his companion that he should let them in.
They were escorted beneath the stone porch, where another guard - this one wearing a waistcoat and trousers and sporting a pair of pistols - opened the main door of the house. He had a long face and a patchy black beard. Frey recognised him vaguely from previous visits. His name was Codge.
‘Guns,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And don’t keep any back. You’ll make me real upset if you do.’
Frey hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of going into a situation like this without firepower. He couldn’t think of any reason for Quail to want him dead, but that did little to ease his mind.
It was the mystery that unnerved him. Quail had given no details in his letter. He’d only said that he had a proposition for Frey, for Frey in particular, and that it might make him very rich. That in itself was enough to make him suspicious. It also made him curious.
I just have to hear him out, Frey thought to himself. Anyway, they were here now, and he didn’t much fancy tramping back to the Ketty Jay until he’d warmed up a bit.
He motioned with his head to the others. Hand ’em over.
Once he’d collected their weapons, Codge stepped out of the way and let them into the entrance hall, where they stood dripping. Three more armed guards lounged about in the doorways, exuding an attitude of casual threat. A pair of large, lean dogs loped over to investigate them. They were white, short-haired and pink-eyed. Night hunters, that could see in the dark and tracked their prey by following heat traces. They sniffed over the newcomers, but when they reached Jez, they shied away.
‘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 towards 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. He’d not been certain he had the date right until now.
‘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 favoured 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
