Nothing Left to Wish For

Nothing Left to Wish For

By Andrew G. Schneider

Copyright 2014 Andrew G. Schneider

Smashwords Edition

Cover art copyright 2013 Sarah Schanze

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue: Cool, With Plenty of Water

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

About the Author

Cool, With Plenty of Water

It was a simple task.

Haul and cleat, steady the sail. Six points to spinward, Mr. Harris. Steady my old bones on the rail and watch the arm of the galaxy stretch away into the sky. We’re to swing wide round that dune.

Aye, aye, Mr. Briggs. Not captain, never captain, even if it’s just the two of us.

I close my one good eye and listen to the sand playing over the hull, the cold wind cutting through my clothes. We’re a small craft, nimble and smooth. Just me and the pilot, Jase Harris, though there’s space enough for three.

Ware starboard! Mr. Harris sings out.

The bulk of the sky goes black behind the prow of a fat freighter, speeding through the deep valleys between the dunes. She’s running dark and fast in the middle of the night, low and heavy on a dozen blistering thrusters. Contraband. Smugglers for sure.

We have right of way, sir?

A mammoth wedge of wood, steel, and sail bearing down without care or cause. She’ll run us down and burn the evidence.

Right o’ way, Mr. Harris. That’s the spirit. The kid’s got talent. Got what it takes to be the best pilot in the Endless Desert. Let’s show these smugglers some proper piratical courtesy.

Sir. Mr. Harris grins, his fingers dance across the wheel. Our little ship groans, her thrusters spin high and hot and we’re rising, up and up. I throw my weight hard against the rail for counterbalance as we cant sideways, skate the side of the freighter and score a gash in her flank she won’t soon forget. Skip off her tail and let a smattering of shots and shouts follow us into the sky.

Then the freighter’s gone and we’re left high and lonely. Naught but the wind for company. You ever been to the Crescent Cities, Mr. Harris?

No, sir. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.

Then hand off the wheel and step lively, port side down. I call it one of the wonders of the world. A jewel, nestled in the broad bosom of the Endless Desert. Viridian. Tourmaline.

They call it a lake. A body of water as large as I’ve ever seen, sickle shaped and calm enough to flip the stars on their face. Trees and farms hug the outer edge and the inner rim, holding off against the ever-present sand. Here and there, like the bones of some buried giant, towers stretch up out of the green; wizards’ playgrounds. Bah, wizards and their flying carpets, always reaching for the stars.

Seven cities, seven ports, and seven thousand ships in and out every day. Landing lights dot the sands, calling me home. Drink it in, Mr. Harris. Topside’s too pricey for the likes us. We’ll be berthed down under.

Aye, my bones ache on nights like this.

&&&

Find Esme, my captain’s wayward daughter, now two years gone across the sands.

I move through the Undercity, along the seventh level market bridge spanning the Pit. Platforms jut like rusted, rotten teeth from the sides of the bridge wherever there’s space between a market stall or behind a tavern. From those drop points elevators — little more than metal cages on chains — crank treasure hunters into the darkness and out of sight. Into the Digs twenty, thirty levels down, where they’ll find their fortunes or die trying.

Three points down, one of the chains snaps, and a cage tumbles away. The diggers inside have time enough to scream.

What a way to go. A sunburnt farmer pauses next to me, spits over the edge. Bats swarm the Pit like a cloud of black smoke in the dead diggers’ wake.

At least it was quick, I comment to no one in particular. The farmer’s gone after his goats. The bats fly away to an evening meal. And nobody else even noticed.

Good thing I left Mr. Harris on the ship. He would’ve cared. Esme would’ve cared. This is no place for either of them.

I walk past a stack of squabbling chickens, around a fall of silks and a jeweler’s canny grin to the drop point, the battered steel platform built out just far enough to clear major struts and girders. Other bridges hang high above and below, rainbows of color and opportunity in the ever-night.

I spin the crank, bring up the chain and don’t get half-a-look from passerby. By this time tomorrow there’ll be a new chain, new cage, and no shortage of idiots ready to test their lives. Mr. Harris would care, and Esme too. I’m just curious.

Cut through. Detail work. Just enough to let it snap, but not so much that anyone would notice.

Pennies for a poor man? Please, sir. I have no food. A beggar stumbles towards me, half his face hidden beneath a steel plate welded onto his skin. I grab the beggar by the collar, swing him out over the Pit.

Wait! Hey! The beggar pinwheels. What are you doing? It doesn’t look it at first, but the steel plate’s a graft, like my eyepatch. The metal’s covered in tiny runes that’ll spin up at the beggar’s command for some form or function. Maybe it sniffs out money for the beggar’s marks, or maybe it’ll shoot me in the face.

Who’s gonna care? I snarl.

What are you talking about?

There’s no chance you walked over here on a whim. I spin up the runes across my eyepatch and give him a scan. The runes send information past the empty socket and straight to my brain. I skip height and weight, filter for metal, runecraft. For trouble. Other than the mask I spot two knives, a pair of bicep grafts, and a pistol, right side back. Who’s gonna care around here?

I don’t. I don’t. I don’t— The would-be beggar kicks and struggles.

My arms are getting tired.

Three streets off the bridge to the right. The Lucky Dog Tavern. He’s at the bar. You can’t miss him.

About damn time. It’s been a long day and too many people I used to know left me with a whole lot of nothing. I toss the man onto the platform. You’re as much a beggar as I’m governor of the Crescent Cities. I toss him a couple of coins and walk away.

And you’re welcome! The beggar calls after me as I disappear into the crowd.

I slip into the Lucky Dog. People step aside, shy away. That kind of place. They open a path to the man I want to see, each one ready to gun me down when I say the wrong thing. That kind of town.

What’ll it be? The bartender cinches his sleeve garters as I lean both elbows on the counter.

Palm liquor.

Clink. Pop. Trickle. The dribble of alcohol out of a dirty bottle is the only sound in the entire tavern.

That stuff is swill, the bartender opines.

I pound the shot anyway. You have anything better?

Let me make you the house special.

I watch the bartender. High collared shirt, dapper vest, thin gray beard, and eyes black as hell. The drink comes in a tall, narrow glass. A shot thick as treacle and dark as tar melts over the back of an overturned spoon and pools at the bottom.

The bartender leans back and crosses his arms, watching me watch him. I haven’t thought of a name yet.

I grab a pitcher of water from behind the counter and fill the glass the rest of the way. The liquor breaks on contact, stretching tendrils up through the water that blossom into bursts of milky, chalky white. A Nightriver Draught? I finish a coded exchange, now twenty years out of date.

Tamish Briggs? The bartender and I clasp hands. It’s been a long time.

Merrick Castillo. Smile, you grizzled old wolf. I left you knee-deep in a warehouse full of blood and gold, and this is where you end up? Tending bar?

The surrounding tension eases. I’m a friend, or at least a business partner, and we’re buffeted by the gentle babble of voices. For privacy. My bullyboy days are behind me. Besides, bartending lends me a veneer of respectability. Castillo slides me another one of his signature drinks and pours one for himself. To old times?

It’s a question. And new. I’m not here on a social call. Sorry.

Pity that. Castillo shrugs. You still plying the slightly less than lawful shipping lanes?

Not lately. Life was simpler, just being a pirate. Straightforward. I’ve become something of a detective. I explain the situation.

So what you’re saying, Castillo leans over the bar, gives me a conspiratorial wink. Is that you’ve risked returning to the Crescent Cities for a woman?

&&&

It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

I get a name. Nasir. A runesmith five levels down. I take a deep breath, try not to think what the girl’s doing sniffing around that kind of a cut-rate hack. Bah. By this time tomorrow we’ll be free and clear from this seething cesspit.

Sir. Mr. Harris is loafing by the cockpit, looking hangdog.

Is there a problem, Mr. Harris? I slow, double-check my pistol.

Shrug, a sideways look. There’s a woman in your cabin, sir.

Not the one we came here for, I wager?

Another shrug. She says she’s here to see you. By name. Mr. Harris is nervous. The cockpit’s where he feels most comfortable. You’d better go see for yourself, sir.

I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Guess I’d better do just that.

My cabin’s cramped. There’s room for a bed, a desk, and a chair. And the chair folds up. There’s a runedisk on the desk, spinning bright, showing a girl with dark hair, bright eyes, and a nose for trouble. Two years gone, Esme. Do you still have that smile, or has the world burnt it out of you, just like it burns everything to ash and black glass?

She’s beautiful. Do you miss her? A woman’s pale, delicate finger stops the runedisk, and the image fades. Colonel Tamish Briggs.

It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. White dress, long legs, slight hips. She has a face like a hawk and eyes as big as saucers, deep as the lake above our heads. The shawl over her head’s slipped back, showing hair as white as the southern sands. Long enough that I wager you weren’t even alive at the time. Mr. Harris’s age. Maybe less. Her name’s Esme, and I miss her every day.

That costs the woman a nervous frown, a hitch in her delivery. "Colonel Tamish Briggs, commander of the Intrepid out of Dust. Decorated by the Crescent Cities council following a fleet action over Redsands against a strike force from Highcliff. You lost your eye to shrapnel from an exploding cannon."

"And my flagship to the Evicerator, before reinforcements showed. I unfold my chair, give my creaky knees a rest. Back then, if someone waltzed into my cabin unannounced, I’d have them whipped, shot, and thrown to the sand dragons, in that order. You’re lucky those days are long gone."

I’m… My name is Ilisa. She pulls a sheaf of papers from her pocket and holds them close to her nose. Colonel… Captain—

Mr. Briggs, I interrupt, emphatic. Or Tamish, if you’re feeling friendly. It’s not every day a pretty woman shows up in my cabin. But not captain, commander, or colonel. Never again.

Pause. Ilisa takes a couple deep, quick breaths. I’m clearly not what she expected. Mr. Briggs, then.

I hear a noise and spot a wide, furred face poking out from under her collar. A bat. A white bat squeaking tiny runes from its mouth. It’s the smallest genie I’ve ever seen.

Mr. Briggs. She flips through her papers. I came here for… for…

My help? My eye hurts. The one that’s no longer there. The woman’s words carry old pain and bad memories. Why, when you have a genie grant your every wish?

No, it doesn’t work like that. Ilisa chuckles as the bat climbs around her shoulder. Even the best genies can only maintain two or three wishes at a time. And Izzie here can’t even hold one wish for more than a moment. The bat nuzzles her cheek, and she smiles. He does what he can, but he’s more of a friend than anything else.

I try massaging my forehead. Miss Ilisa—

Where was I? She takes out a pair of glasses and checks her papers again, holding one of the sheets to the light. You know, people say I’m prettier without the glasses, but everything’s just blurry…

Miss Ilisa— I try again.

"Colonel Tamish Briggs, commander of the Intrepid out of—"

Miss Ilisa! I break out my bosun’s voice. That stops her cold, drops the paper from her fingers. Why are you here?

I, uh, I need your assistance. To get down to the Digs. Everyone’s talking about the return of the famous Colonel Briggs and you can do any—

That’s just the problem, I interrupt, softer. Everyone’s talking. Miss Ilisa, I’m sorry you had to come all the way down from your high tower to hear this, but I’m not for hire. In fact, I’ll be leaving tomorrow, as soon as we’re clear to take off. Thank you for your time.

But. This is my only chance—

The Undercity’s no place for a girl like you. See Mr. Harris on your way out. He’ll escort you home.

But, Colonel Briggs, Ilisa pleads. You’re the hero of Redsands. You defeated the pirate-king Lazarus in single combat. You sailed the Nightriver—

I sit up straight. Nobody knows about the Nightriver. Well, almost nobody. Who are you?

My name is Ilisa, she repeats herself. Shuffles her papers. I’m not trying to blackmail you or anything. I just need— No. What I’m trying to say is—

No. Go home, girl. I squeeze my good eye shut. I’m not the man you think I am.

She leaves in a rush of silk, her little genie squeaking small, fretful wishes all the way.

A scrap of paper lies on the floor when I finally open my eye. The first page of Ilisa’s speech. Bullet points. Nice, neat, and twenty years out of date. A list of old times I’d rather forget.

Redsands cost me my eye, Lazarus ruined my reputation, and a wild ride on the Nightriver stole everything else. I reach into my cabinet and grab a bottle of whatever’s at hand. Damn memories.

I can’t wait to leave.

&&&

What did you tell her, Mr. Harris? I catch the pilot by the low rail some hours later. I’m not sure how many. Scattered pinpoints of light dot the dark of the high hold. What happened when she waltzed onto our ship, all fragile and fresh and white as a lakeside flower? Runelights dim in favor of night.

Harris listens to the low roar of a mid-weight merchantman easing out of port to begin her run while the air is still cool. They’re late, and lazy to leave now. They should’ve left at dusk. He frowns. One of their thrusters is running hot. The runechain’s degraded. They won’t make it halfway across the Flats before the sun forces them high, and with that thruster spitting broken chains all over the desert...

Maybe they’ll get lucky. Or have weapons enough if the sand dragons come calling. I give him a moment. Back to my question, Mr. Harris.

Another stretch of silence. I told her she was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. That the ship and myself were at her disposal for as long as she would require our services. That if only she would favor me with a kind word, I was hers.

That’s a long speech for you, Mr. Harris, when you’re not talking ships.

Well, that’s what I wanted to say. Actually, I…welcomed her a board, had her wait in the cabin, and brought her some refreshment.

I thought you didn’t like women. I’m about to lose a bet back home on the Pirate Queen, if the rest of the crew ever finds out.

Not at all. I just haven’t found the right one. I raise an eyebrow. It’s hard to think right with a lady like that onboard.

We’ve plenty of ladies on the crew, Mr. Harris. Ilisa there isn’t the first to sashay past the steering wheel.

Harris guffaws. Like Miss Esme? No, sir. I’ve not ever seen a lady like Ilisa. She’s got…refinement. Another stretch of silence, punctuated by some fracas three ships down and ending with a deckhand being thrown overboard.

We both wince when the body smacks against the ribs of the ship’s cradle and settles to the black glass floor. I’m all right, a voice slurs from below.

Well.

Harris speaks. But I suppose she’s not coming back, is she?

Not if she knows what’s good for her.

&&&

I hit the narrow labyrinth of twelfth level early, after the bats are abed but before the crowds make me push. I’m in no mood to push.

I pick my way through piles of trash and crates and all sorts of junk spilling out of this alley or that dumpster. The runesmith I’m looking for works out of a cluttered studio fronted by a dingy awning that’s fraying at the edges.

Are you Nasir? I duck into the shop and repeat myself. Have to shout to be heard over the roar of a nearby turbine, the giant fan forcing hot surface air into the depths. Keeping bad air from the Digs at bay.

A thin man, thick glasses and nose like a hatchet, looks up from a metal workbench. Squints. I can’t do both eyes, he snaps. And you risk rot if you take on more than that. Otherwise I’d say you’re in excellent shape, so walk on out because you won’t get more from me. He taps his finger against his nose, leaves a smear of soot. "Three doors down. They’ll take your money, if you must become more metal than man."

Nasir has some rodent-like animal perched on his shoulder. The man has a genie. Its right leg is malformed and its tail doesn’t quite work, but a genie nonetheless.

I take a second look around. The place is cluttered, but orderly. Everything’s in its place. Small stuff, tools for detailed work. There’s no furnace, but a genie can heat metal well enough.

You’re good, I decide. And unusually conscientious in an area that caters to sailors, pirates, and smugglers.

I’m damn good, Nasir snaps. But the rent on Palm street is too high and besides, I dislike the sun. Commissions down here are far more interesting.

I’m not looking for anything for myself. I ease into the little shop. A small construction in the corner creates a waterfall of flame, its underlying runes spinning up and down in perfect synchronicity.

A practice piece. But I keep it around to impress men like you. Now, do you have other business? Nasir holds up a flat strip of steel and his genie scratches a stream of fiery runes into the air. The runes link with each other and spin into a circle, changing, settling over the metal. Then the wish is granted, the runes are gone, and the metal glows red hot. Nasir sets to work with a small hammer and chisel.

I’m looking for a girl. A woman actually. After all this time. A young woman.

Then I’m afraid, my friend, that you have most certainly come to the wrong place.

Word has it she’s been asking around the local runesmiths. Asking after something special.

And who is she to you, presuming I care?

The daughter I never had. My captain’s girl. I swallow an unexpected lump. Ran away two years now.

Perhaps old enough to enforce her will upon her future? Or to make any number of idiot mistakes? Nasir pauses his work. Word travels fast, Colonel Briggs. But you left the Crescent Cities behind a long time ago, and it has little interest in welcoming you back.

Nasir doesn’t look up as I leave.

&&&

I let the press of Crescent Cities business carry me through the streets. Alleys so tight I can touch both sides without raising my arms open into multilevel plazas full of roofways that’re bridges that become buildings themselves with enough time, like living in a giant spider web. And bats. Everywhere I go, bats.

I finally step from the flow at a highwalk viewing port, third level. A single sheet of runescribed crystal bulges out from the surrounding stone and steel. Five lengths tall and fourteen wide, they show up every now and again along the public promenades. Lovers walks, for those who spend their entire lives in the Undercity. Blue, bright sunlight filters into the lake, and then through the crystal barrier. More water than any of us ever have in our lives, and just out of reach.

Any luck? Castillo’s cool and cultivated at my side, staring into the water.

Nasir clammed up when he saw me. Everything else was just a formality.

He’s being pressured. Castillo shrugs. We all are.

What for? Not Esme.

Your girl doesn’t even figure into this, except as a bargaining chip. Want to take a wild guess?

It’s me they want. I avoid the Crescent Cities for twenty years. The minute I walk in I get bounced around place to place, person to person. I fell back on my old contacts, and the ungrateful wretches spread word of my coming. What gives?

You have a reputation for being able to accomplish the impossible, and survive. Don’t try to deny it. Castillo cuts off my protest. You’re still alive, aren’t you?

What of it? I don’t like the way this conversation has turned.

There’s trouble in the Digs. About thirty levels down.

You don’t say. The woman in white, waiting in my cabin. Sounds like she’s only the first.

There’s a new excavation. Castillo continues. Opened up an entirely new section just ripe for the picking.

Let me make another wild guess. There’s a problem.

Can’t pull the wool over your eyes. Castillo slaps my back. Diggers go in, no one comes out. Everyone thinks it’s something big. Everyone wants it.

I wait for the other shoe to drop.

"Everyone wants you, Castillo continues. They just don’t know it yet."

Even you? Smile, you grizzled old wolf. Make it a question.

No, no. Castillo shakes his head, chuckles. This dig is too rich for my blood. I’m just giving you a friendly heads up, in case anyone comes a knocking.

Of course you are. Let me know if you hear anything about Esme. A school of fish — red, yellow, purple — darts up to the crystal barrier, then darts away. Down the promenade I spot a pair of familiar figures. A white dress, a mop of brown hair. Well. His own time and none of my business. We make our own mistakes.

Have I ever let you down, Tamish? Castillo presses his point.

You don’t want me to answer that. I’ll be in touch.

&&&

Damn and double damn. This is what I hoped to avoid, why the Crescent Cities were our last blasted port of call. But with Esme’s trail hot after so long, I was fool enough to think we’d be in and out ahead of any problems. I was wrong.

I have no reason to doubt Castillo. The mob bosses, drug kingpins, gang leaders, and petty wizards who run the Undercity all want a piece of the Digs. They need to get to it fast, too, before word filters up topside. Before the big boys in their towers come down to play. I expect to be hit up with propositions — people making me offers I’d better not refuse. But the walks are quiet and my way is clear. Meaning three things: Esme’s safe. I won’t find her before this mess is over and done. And, as I doubtless realize the first two items, my cooperation is assured. The whole Undercity is holding its breath, ready to fight over the scraps of my success. Just as likely over my dead body.

Damn and double damn.

A pair of grafted goons just closed down the alley to the docks. There’s one ahead and one behind, both as wide as walls and covered in metal muscle.

You guys got a message, or death wish? Grin, man. Grin like you mean it, because you won’t take them unless they think they might lose.

A message. The one in front of me begins walking closer, his hands open in front of him. It doesn’t mean a thing, not with those grafts. He’s rigged for strength, speed, and probably protection from a pistol, just in case.

A personal delivery, for one Mr. Tamish Briggs. The one behind me lays a hand on my shoulder like a ton of bricks. I almost fall to my knees. Or should I say Colonel? The goon elongates his words until they stretch straight across the alley.

Mr. Briggs is just fine.

Such a gentleman, the first one says. It’s like he’s worried we’re going to do something. Something more than have a friendly chit-chat.

That’s normally our role, the second one replies. And if you don’t listen very carefully, we’ll be back to do just that.

I’m all ears.

There’s someone who would be very grateful if you stayed away from the Digs.

Furthermore, this same someone would be very grateful if you convinced Miss Ilisa to return to the surface.

Is that all? I ask.

The one in front of me nods. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Colonel. He envelops my right hand in his own, gives me a firm shake while pressing something into my palm. It is our sincere hope that we do not meet again.

Likewise. I allow myself to breathe and slowly take my left hand off my pistol. In my palm is a shiny golden coin, newly minted with a crescent and palm trees on one side, and a face in profile on the other.

&&&

The governor? Harris rolls out from under the ship, wipes his hands on his pants and carefully stows his tools. Why would the governor of all the Crescent Cities care about what you do? Heck, what any of us do?

Al-Hasan is more than just the governor of the Crescent Cities. He’s also the most powerful wizard this side of the Nightriver. One way or another, he’s either financing or buying up the proceeds of most Digs down here. He also drove my captain to piracy and killed Esme’s mother, but that’s old news and none of my business.

Then why stop you from trying to investigate? It’ll end up with him anyway. Unless… Harris thinks fast. Unless he thinks whatever’s in there is powerful enough to be a threat. That it’s something he can’t afford falling into the hands of the competition, and is planning to retrieve himself.

That’s one possibility, Mr. Harris. I spit over the rail. What’s the other?

He’s governor. He has better things to do than keep an eye on every project in the Digs. Harris walks himself down the other path. If the margin for profit or power was large enough to risk angering the governor... His eyes widen. He might not know.

Like I said, smart kid.

So what do we do, sir?

Al-Hasan’s not one to keep his word when it doesn’t suit him, and the small timers down here won’t be happy if we just sit back and let rumor run its course. They expect me to dip into the Digs because whether she knows it or not, they’ve got Esme hostage until I do.

Harris swings up onto the deck, checks some runes on the steering wheel. I guess he’s doing a preflight check; he spins the runes so fast I don’t follow a third of what happens. Harris seems satisfied, though, so it’s good enough for me. Do you have a plan, sir?

Aye, Mr. Harris. We need to pay a visit to the lady in white. Out of a passel of bad choices, this is the only one that doesn’t take us straight to the cleaners. Not right away, at least.

Miss Ilisa? Are we going to help her after all?

I’m hoping we can help each other.

Harris nods. But where would we find her?

I’ll be asking you, I think.

Aye, sir. Harris hangs his head. How did you find out?

"There’s a reason you call me sir, Mr. Harris. Now hop to."

&&&

She’s in a boarding house, ninth level. All the runelights on this level are red. The inhabitants like to say it helps hang onto their night vision. The rest of us say otherwise.

Regardless, it’s no place for lady, not that vision in alabaster. There are plenty of women here, take who you will, but Ilisa's a needle in a haystack that’d do best not to be found.

Have you been here before? I follow Harris up a clattered, battered set of metal stairs that swings up the side of the building. The door at the top is old and dented, scrap from a broken frigate. I make out the scars where some cannon beat itself again and again against the hull, the runeshot scoring the metal in deep grooves. It’s a private room, separate exit. Ilisa has that much sense.

Once, Harris admits. She insisted I escort her here, the night you, um, refused...

I glare.

Maybe twice?

Don’t go soft for this one, I warn him. She’ll get you into a world of trouble.

Don’t see it can be much worse, Harris mimics me. Cheeky bastard. We’re locked in port with big names pulling us in every direction but the way we want to go.

Fair enough. I leave off as we hit the landing.

Ilisa? Harris knocks, a soft pattern. It’s Jase.

Once or twice? I scowl through the webwork of buildings and bridges, everything cast in blood-tinged shadow.

Harris has the good grace to look embarrassed.

Jase? Ilisa peers out from a crack in the door, throws it wide and throws herself into his arms. You came. And you brought Colonel Briggs.

I step into a small parlor. It’s not the miserable squalor I expected. Damask curtains, plush couch, a steel and glass coffee table. There are a few crumbs here and there, the only remnants of meals at home. Better than any berth I’ve taken these many years. Nice place. I like the wallpaper. Blue and white cool the place down.

Looks aren’t everything, Colonel Briggs, but the landlord’s efforts are appreciated. Ilisa has us sit, disappears through a door and past a heavy blue curtain. Slips back a moment later with a hot pot of mint tea. She pours it into three cups of beaten copper, simple chains spinning round their rims to keep our beverages nice and warm. Nice tea set. I look her over as she walks, look for the telltale signs she’s more than she’s pretending to be. I keep coming back to her clothes.

White’s not a practical color for the Undercity. It gets dirty with smoke, washed with sand and soot. The fans keep the air moving but not every street has spinning runelights. Fire is just as common — lamps burn with oil drawn up from the deep sands or siphoned off the Nightriver.

But Ilisa’s white as bleached bone, as the cracked ice that forms on the rails when you fly too high. White, as if she’d stepped down from the towers along the lakeshore and lost herself in this underground squalor without once coming in contact with the dark and danger that live here.

Ilisa sips her tea and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Colonel Briggs, she begins. I’m so pleased we’re able to meet again, and hopefully on less contentious terms. She brings out her glasses and papers. I need your help. Unbeknownst to any of the tower wizards, there has been a great discovery in the thirtieth level dig…

I blink, and Ilisa’s words roll over me like a gentle breeze. This is her speech. What she was going to say to me the night she waltzed onto my ship and into my cabin.

…Reports indicate powerful, ancient runecraft. Ilisa wraps up. I believe its retrieval will be enough to secure my freedom. I hope then to leave the Crescent Cities forever. She watches me, but I have only one eye and it glares steady. Finally she breaks my gaze, connects briefly with Harris’. I was watching, the night you came into port. My family has connections with the docks and I thought that such a daring pilot would be perfect. When I found out the ship was actually sailing under the famous Colonel Briggs, it was like a dream come true. I grew up on stories of your heroics…

Why, Miss Ilisa? I ask. Why try for the Digs when you could’ve jumped on the first ship leaving and never looked back?

My uncle is the governor of the Crescent Cities. I wouldn’t get far before his people caught me. I was going to prove my worth. Buy my freedom from him with some stunning treasure that would’ve otherwise slipped through his grasp.

The governor doesn’t know, does he? About the dig?

She shakes her head. I…intercepted the communications. Like I said, nobody knows but me.

You, and every scumbag in the Undercity. I force air out through my nose and lean back into the couch. Is there anything else you aren’t telling us?

Nothing I can think of, Colonel. Only, she pauses, fingers a locket around her neck. Glances at Harris again. I have a weak heart.

I stand up and walk around. I don’t know what to say. She can’t help us anymore than we’re in a position to help her. I thought maybe there’d be some family or connections we could use, but I don’t see it. And I hate delivering bad news to pretty girls. Hey, I stall; run a couple other plans through my head. You forgot the introduction. I pass over the piece of paper Ilisa left in my cabin.

It didn’t really work out as I planned. She takes a deep breath. Colonel Briggs—

Don’t start over on my account. I wave her off. Damned if I can’t think of any way through this without us all ending up dead. You haven’t seen that girl, Esme, have you?

I’m sorry, Colonel. Ilisa flusters. I haven’t had the time. Another breath full of nervous chatter. And Jase said you were coming back so I wanted to be ready for you.

Wait a minute. Jase said? I fix Harris with a look.

Harris fixes me back. You weren’t about to leave a woman like Miss Ilisa in distress, sir. It’s not in your nature, and not in mine, neither.

"Mr. Harris, we’ll discuss your initiative and my predilections further when we return to the Pirate Queen. Until then—"

"The Pirate Queen? Ilisa’s tea spills out of her hands, clatters to the floor. Jase, you’re with the Pirate Queen? And you, Colonel Briggs? But they’re a bunch of thieves... Murderers."

I don’t go on the raids, Jase retorts. I just fly us in, fly us out. I don’t hurt anybody, or steal anything. I swear.

It doesn’t make a difference, Jase! Ilisa edges away. Her eyes dart between us, double-wide behind her glasses. "Pirates!