(iceland)
Norge returned the next day around one. "Letter for you," he said, "and a job."
The job wound up being a fairly straightforward request from Norge's 'information associate' to provide full documents for 'Anistas Kudrins of Olyokin', soon to be a handservant with references. (Wow, dream big, Anistas, he thought dully, but then admitted a handservant would be easier to impersonate.) Norge gave him a description to fill in but no picture; he said instead the picture would be the last thing to go into the file before filing with Olyokin legislature.
That sounded pretty fishy, but fishy was Ísland's business. And honest, he wouldn't do this for just anybody, but Norge wasn't just anybody.
The letter on the other hand was much less welcome. When the first words he saw were "DON'T RIP THIS UP, PLEASE" it had two effects upon Ísland:
-It made him really want to rip it up
-It made him immediately look at the signature to see who the sender was
When he found out who the sender was, he really, really wanted to rip it up. But for some reason - morbid curiosity? slow day? felt like needing a reason to drink and or whack his head on the desk? - he kept reading.
I understand we are not friends, and are indeed on opposite sides of ideologies. I doubt you can say you respect my work and equally, I cannot say I respect yours. But I admit you are, hands down, the best at what you do within this entire system. Just this once I require your assistance in helping to return someone home, a freeman who's in danger of being bought at the Decennial. So it appears that for once we're on the same side.
I sincerely hope I've at least piqued your interest. Please send your reply with a meeting place to Postal Box 592, Fasciemi Anchorage. I'd like us to meet and discuss this in person; I think it's fair to say both of us feel poorly towards paper trails. (Please feel free to burn the letter after reading.)
Arthur Kirkland, Captain of the Great Delivery of Banningham
Ísland ripped it up anyway. "Asshole," he said, "thinks I'm at his beck and call." Maybe he wouldn't burn it, just to be a jerk.
Norge padded back over from the stove. "What was it?" he asked, picking up the two pieces of ripped parchment.
"'Captain Kirkland, requesting my assistance'," Ísland said, in a mocking Queen of Banningham accent. "He can go fuck himself, the dingy pirate."
"Don't be vulgar," said Norge. "You should go."
"What? Are you joking?"
"Great Delivery did the Dordlands job three years ago with our friend Tim. This would be convenient." Ísland's face remained firmly fixed in perplexion. "I'm serious," Norge insisted. "Look, if you don't wanna go, I'll go with you. But he wants something from you, so we've got a bargaining chip to force information about Dordlands out of him. You said it yourself yesterday morning, we have no clue where Tim's sister is. This'll give us a head start. And if he doesn't have what we want, then he doesn't get what he wants. Simple as that."
Which, as much as it pained Ísland to think about, was actually a great idea.
"Fine," he said, grumbling, finding some parchment and ink, "but you're coming with me. And Sverige."
"Oh hell, let's all go," Norge said. "Make us a trip out of it."
.:.
Ísland sent back the following message:
Much as it pains me to do anything remotely associated to you - besides undoing your miserable work, that is - I'm feeling generous. You will meet me two days from now at Brattefjell Anchorage in the Cloud at 6 PM System Standardised Time sharp. I know the Great Delivery has speed when she wants so don't even think about being late. I will be in the Lower Service Meeting room. When you knock, give the password: 'Kirkland is a filthy pirate who steals people for money'. Nice and loud.
He didn't bother signing it.
Six people in a tiny stealthship were not a great idea, but it would have to be the stealthship. Brattefjell Anchorage was ancient and nobody took care of it anymore. Its weight limits for docking ships were two centuries out of date, and Ísland didn't feel lucky testing the strength of the dilapidated beams on their airship, which was overweight and bulky anyway. (Danmark had been saying for three years now that he'd apply for a minor degree in engineering at Langholt University, but nobody believed him anymore; Danmark's only consistency was being all talk.)
On the upside, Brattefjell was deserted. And Norge reported having spotted a tracker on the airship when he left Olyokin. That meant they'd need to overhaul the facade again, and they would require a good three, four days for that.
(It would have been a mere two days if they had an engineer on the team. Ísland was just saying.)
.:.
They arrived in the stealthship at 5 PM to get ready. The anchorage wasn't too large and didn't have much in the way of defence. They'd been there nearly an hour when they finally heard voices. "Wow," said one - not Kirkland - "you sure pick the best place for your dates. A creaky old shack. This is awesome. Not."
"I swear to the god I don't believe in," and that was Kirkland, "you get more insufferable with every day."
"The sooner you admit to yourself you secretly love my awesome company, the happier we'll all be, Captain," the other voice said cheerily.
"Do you think you could kindly shut your mouth and perhaps keep it closed for the duration of the meeting?" Kirkland asked sweetly. "I only ask because this is a little bit important."
"Scheisse," the other hissed, "I know it's important, you don't have to remind me. I'll be good, okay? I'll be helpful and useful. I wouldn't do anything to risk Al."
There was a knock at the door. "Password?" Ísland called mockingly.
"Oh, for chrissake -"
"You don't get in without the password!" Ísland sing-songed.
Some grumbling, and then, "Kirkland is a dirty pirate who sells people for money. There. Now let me in." Amidst his snickering, Ísland gave the go-ahead to Sverige, standing behind the door to throw open the deadbolt and swing the door open.
"It was actually filthy pirate, who steals people for money, but I'll let that slide," said Ísland, slouching against a gunpowder crate and propping his feet up on another one.
Kirkland looked more ruffled than the fraying cuffs of his shabby frock coat. His companion, Ísland had never met before. He was a white-haired red-eyed pale man, wearing an over-sized shirt (which might have been white once, long ago) that he had tied with a faded cloth belt and left to hang over loose pants. The only reason he didn't manage to trip all over his pant legs was the criss-crossing twine that held the material tied tightly to his calves.
Ísland thought he should've done the same with his shirt; his rolled-up cuffs kept sliding down past his skinny wrists. It'd be almost charming if he weren't a pirate.
"Look," Kirkland said. "I'm not happy about this either. Let me explain and perhaps things'll become a lot clearer. Then we'll both be on our ways, nice-like, and we never have to see each other's faces again, aye?"
"The sooner that happens," Ísland hissed, "the better."
"Alright. Here's the matter. We need your services doing two things. Part one, we need you to make four million look like forty million."
This was actually a fairly simple job with check forging. But Ísland wasn't willing to do anything for them just yet. "And why's that? Cap'n wants a new set of knives?"
"'S got nothing to do with me. I need the money to purchase back a slave at the Decennial coming up. If it weren't for one of my stupid ex-crewmates, I wouldn't have to be anywhere near Hallar the day of the auction, but he went and picked up a boy from New Joplin that he shouldn't've. That's the boy I want to free. So far I've managed to sell him to someone who will put him up at auction - that makes it easier for a guy like me to buy him."
"But you can't get anywhere near Hallar these days." Ísland had read the news that morning; Kirkland and friends were officially persona non grata at Hallar airspace (and a few others).
"Precisely twice my problem. They're going to be watching the hell out of every planet involved in the service trade to detain and question a mercenary frigate like mine. And it's the one time I need to get to Caput Halleri surface and back without getting shot at. How I will manage to buy back the boy from the auction is my next problem to tackle, but the first is to ensure I've got the funds. I sold him for four million. If you can inflate that an order of magnitude - enough to buy him and travel back to New Joplin - I'm going to take him home.
"Part two, we need you to forge documentation and file it for us for this one here," he said, pointing to his white-haired associate.
Huh. So, not a pirate then. "Explain," Ísland said.
"I want to free him, too," Kirkland said. "He's been going from place to place since he's not sellable - none of the other traders've had much luck - so it's the end of the line. As it turns out, I need a boatswain, so he's even got a job, just needs the documentation."
"A job!" Ísland laughed. "'He's even got a job', he says! You want me to help you hire another dirty bugger to help you do your shit work so you can continue stealing freefolk and making your money off their broken backs? You disgust me. No deal."
"Hey, hey hey!" said the white-haired one, "let's not get so hasty, huh? Captain's doing a bad job of explaining the real situation here. Lemme break it down for you instead." Kirkland was flushed and gaping, but the white-haired man just patted him on his hand, stage-whispering, "It's okay, I got this," which only made Kirkland more apoplectic.
Ísland liked him immediately, for a prospective pirate. "I'm listening."
"You must not know who I am, so here's the story since you've been under a rock. I'm the guy that goes from trader to trader to trader because none of them can figure out a way to tame the awesome me into being sold. In fact most of them have just decided to stop trying. Case in point, Romae. You know Avo Romae?"
Oh yes, Ísland knew Avo Romae. "Where is this going?"
"The traders, they figure, if they can't sell me to someone who wants my living body, they'll sell me to someone who wants my dead body. There are some real sickos out there, man," the white-haired man said, "real fuckin' sick. Do you know how much a sicko would pay for that kind of perversion?"
Ísland shrugged. "Maybe a million?" Kinky shit - more expensive - but an untrained slave, after all. They generally never asked more than a few hundred thousand for those.
"Try ten." Ten?! For an untrained slave? "Ten million offered to Kirkland for him to sell me to Avo Romae, so Romae could sell me to a pervert who wanted to hunt and kill me. Captain's never even seen that much money. And do you know what he said?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me," Ísland replied, trying to keep his face perfectly expressionless.
"He said no deal. For me. So you see what this is? And there's - there's no love here. In fact Kirkland doesn't even like me that much. In fact, he probably hates my guts with how much I annoy him."
"That's not untrue," Kirkland piped up.
"And despite being offered ten million to get rid of me permanently, he wouldn't do it. I mean, Kirkland's not a good man -"
"I'm really not," Kirkland agreed.
"- but if he can manage this, for me, someone he doesn't like, imagine what he can do for someone he does like."
"I told you, I don't like him!" Kirkland said, flustered.
"Oh, you do too," white-haired guy said softly, "you must, I've never seen you bend over backwards like this for anybody." Not for me, Ísland heard, unspoken.
"Well this little love-in is simply adorable," Ísland snapped, "really, it is. But you're wasting my time so we'll cut to the chase. I've got a question, why would your little pirate-to-be here need proper documentation? Most pirates, when asked to present their documents, pull out a sword and say 'I got your documents right here'."
The white-haired guy cackled. "Oh man, I am so ready to do that it's not even funny."
"If I don't get him papers," Kirkland said, struggling to speak over his louder companion, "then he's still essentially a slave. He still can't go anywhere on his own. He still could be spotted, captured, and sold off to that same bidder who wants his head. And - well look at him, will you? You'll never forget that face. White hair and red eyes. Everyone knows who he is from the look of him, and ... and if anybody should ever get the word out that he's free for the taking, or if Romae should put a wanted sign out for his capture, he'd be gone in a flash."
"You can't protect him if they kidnap him in the dead of night and strip him of clothes and documents. Like a certain pirate I know does," Ísland sneered.
"No," Kirkland admitted, not rising to the bait, "but I'd do my best to get him back."
"Aw, captain," the white-haired prospective pirate said warmly, clasping his hands to his chest like an absurd swooning lover, "I'm touched!"
"You be quiet. Anyway. Will you do it?"
"Let me see if I've got this straight," Ísland said. "You're going to give me money - just pile it in my arms - and trust that I will inflate it for you, as a personal favour, because I'm that nice and the history beween us is that important to me, instead of taking it and running, like you'd deserve?"
"We're, ah, not exactly spending it on a new ship," Kirkland said weakly, "it's for a good cause."
"And you'd like me to - while I'm at it, being so nice - forge some papers and file them for you so that this guy can join your little piracy team."
"Yes, please!" said the white-haired one enthusiastically.
"And I guess I'm just to assume you will do exactly as you've said, instead of, oh, take the money and run, and leave the boy at auction. That'd be the most profitable route."
"I'd never," Kirkland swore.
Oh, really? Ísland thought drily.
"Then -" he made a show of clearing his throat - "what are you willing to give up?" Ísland said. "How do you want to pay for all this?"
And that was the cue for all the others to pop out of their hiding places - behind crates, behind the door, behind the desk - with pistols drawn and cocked. Kirkland's hand instantly leapt to the holster at his waist, but all too quickly, he was surrounded, and the horrified look on his face when he realised it was picture-perfect.
Ísland let his grin slowly shift from pleased to shit-eating. Some parts of his job were simply delectable and merited savouring.
"Toldja you should've given me a gun," the white-haired one hissed.
"You don't know how to fire a pistol!"
"I coulda learned!"
"Fat lot of good it'd've done anyway, we're still outnumbered," Kirkland muttered. He said aloud, "Ah, we can offer money -"
"What I don't have, I can create the illusion of having," Ísland said smugly. "I don't need your ill-gotten gains."
"Then, erm..." Kirkland seemed lost for words. It was a nice change of pace.
"We'll stop slaving," the white-haired one stated. "How about that? That helps your agenda."
"What?" Kirkland erupted. "That is - completely - absolutely not! Don't listen to him, he's mad -"
"I think I like that idea," and this time, it wasn't Ísland talking, it was Tim from the corner, approaching Kirkland and his associate slowly, Danmark not far behind him. "In fact I think I like that idea a lot." He came about a metre away from Kirkland and stopped. Then he raised his pistol to Kirkland's face and pressed the barrel into Kirkland's forehead. The white-haired guy looked set to lunge, prepared to knock Kirkland out of the way, but Danmark stopped any more such motions with a gun pointed at his face.
"Do you remember me, Captain?" Tim asked softly, dangerously.
Kirkland swallowed, looking intimidated. "I'm - I'm afraid I don't," he admitted.
"I guess too many slip through your greasy hands for you to recall any fine details," Tim spat. "Allow me to jog your memory. Do you remember the Dordlands run?"
"Yes," Kirkland replied quietly, "yes, I do."
"Three years ago you took a pair of siblings. That was kinda weird, wasn't it? You'd never done that before. Remember it? One of them had come to give you money to let the other one go, which you'd said you'd do, because you were just so nice. Do you remember what you did after?"
Kirkland nodded.
"Maybe now you recognise one of them, huh? Maybe it was hard to tell who I was because I didn't have that terrified, betrayed look on my face, you know, the one that's now on your ugly mug? I'd give you a mirror for you to check it out and compare, but I don't know if you could stand to look yourself in the face after what you did - you took the money my sister brought, you took it all for Cap'n Kirkland, and then you took your pretty pair of slaves and sold us both to Romae. You remember now?" And Tim's voice cracked and wavered in his anger. "You remember how much money we made you, you filthy pig?"
"Wow, Captain," his associate said.
"I am not a good man," Kirkland murmured.
"No. You're not," the white-haired guy replied flatly.
"Yes, I remember you," Kirkland said, to Tim. "But I don't remember where you went afterwards. I only brought you to Romae. That's all I know."
Tim glared. "Well, guess we can't do anything for you, then."
"I remember Margot," the white-haired guy piped up, and Tim went rigid. "That's who you're asking for, isn't it? Your sister."
Tim nodded tightly, his eyes hard.
"Yeah, I remember Margot very well," he said. "Desmond threw her in the brig when she didn't behave too nicely for him and she stayed there until we got to Hallar. She was neat."
"He tried to violate her," Tim growled.
"Keyword, tried. Didn't succeed. Also he's dead now. But yeah, Margot was awesome," the white-haired guy noted, with some pride. "The Delivery took her a few times around actually. Like they did with me, here and there."
"You think you can find her?" Ísland asked the white-haired guy. He nodded. "If you can get whoever's got her now to put her up at the Decennial, or to sell her to someone who will put her up at the Decennial, we'll buy."
"Heyy, uh, there was a reason Margot went around with us for a bit," he replied. "She's a real riot. About as sellable as I am."
"You will tell them there will be a buyer, and it's not someone who wants to kill her," Ísland clarified, his voice thin. "You do this for us, and help us buy our 'slave'; we'll forge you your papers and help you buy yours."
"Have I got your word on that?" Kirkland asked.
"You have. I'd ask for yours, but my friend here -" Ísland pointed to Tim - "can vouch for precisely how much that's worth." He stuck his hand out and let Kirkland defile it with a firm shake. Well, he didn't like these gloves anyway. "I'll simply trust you want to free this boy of yours badly enough that you don't screw this up. Once you've got what we want, you'll send me another note - since I know you know where to send it - and we'll meet again."
Kirkland said nothing. Good. There was nothing the foul pig could say.