Behind her, a Void horse sniffed the underbrush, searching for needlemice to snack on. Dappled shade fell upon silver scales from snout to hooves, a finned tail brushing crimson leaves. At Fi’s voice, the beast perked webbed ears. Her eyes stayed fixed on the loam, milky blind and framed in black sclera.
The horse huffed, scattering leaves beneath her nose.
“Probably clueless,” Fi agreed. She returned to her binoculars,inspecting the gleam of a golden wristwatch. “But clueless with money? I can live with that.”
Fi had never arrived late to a client meet-up in her life. Neither had she ever met a client on time. People behaved more genuinely when they thought no one was watching, and these men were hurried. Brazen.
Aisinay snorted. What the Void horse lacked in sight, she made up for with a keen sense for energy sources, and she’d been restless since they arrived. Could be a pack of trade wardens prowling nearby. Better settle business quickly. Fi latched a metal cart to her horse—careful of the fins spining her neck, in place of a mane—then grabbed the lead and headed for the clearing.
Now came the matter of entrances. This, Fi learned early in her career, could make or break a deal.
Crunched leaves alerted the men to her approach. The younger, Fi’s age, kept close to his cart with downcast eyes that screamed “assistant.” The one with the wristwatch pushed middle-age, sixty by her guess. He straightened at Fi’s arrival, steel-eyed with the intensity of a man trying too hard to look intimidating. She met them with a crooked grin, arms wide.
“Fear not, gentlemen. I have arrived!”
What an arrival it was. Fi wore a bodysuit of dark gray silviamesh with purple accent lines, tailored tight to her curves, the hexagonal fabric light as silk and tough as steel. Sinfully expensive, paid for by a lucrative job five years back, moving a rare collection of sundrop tulips off the Spring Plane. Her mascara: knife-sharp against smoky eyeshadow. Her weapons: on bold display, the metal hilt of an energy sword at her belt, five glowing silver energy capsules affixed to her gloves. But most eye-catching of all: her hair, Void-black roots shifting to pastel rainbow, curls cut to her collarbone.
At least one of these details solicited a raised brow from the elder man. He masked it with a toothy smile. “A beautiful day on the Autumn Plane.”
“Always is,” Fi returned. Consistent to the point of dullness.
Aisinay snorted and yanked her bridle. Odd. The Void horse made excellent character judgments, but beyond this man’s sour attitude, he wore no visible weapons or energy sources. Just a gaudy green vest and suit jacket with gilded pinstripes and… a hint of silviamesh peeking out his collar? Maybe notcompletelyclueless.
“Fionamara Kolbeck? Your reputation precedes you. Impressive, for someone so”—his watery gaze slid over her, appraising in a way that made her fist clench—“young.” He extended a hand. “I’m Cardigan.”
Fi snorted. “Cardigan?Your mother name you after her favorite knitwear?”
He retracted his hand, a scowl curling thin lips. “Perhaps we should get to business.”
Rolling over so easy? Not just impatient, then. If dear, sweetCardiganhad no rebuttal to her insult, he must be desperate as well. In need of discretion, since their meeting was set up in someone else’s name—his sheepish assistant, she assumed. Not local, either. Seasonspeak served as a common language across all four Season-Locked Planes, but he didn’t have the crisp enunciation of an Autumn dialect, nor the heavier syllables of her Winter accent. Something lighter, more frivolous with vowels… Spring, most likely.
All things considered, Fi smelled an opportunity for a price markup. She reached into her cart and pulled out her most intimidating weapon: a clipboard.
“All right, boys.” She brandished a pen like a threat. “Where are we headed? I transport to all four Season-Locked Planes,and all pockets of existence in between. Plus, half-price special for anything you want tossed into the infinite Void between realities—that one’s popular with the politicians.” She winked.
“The cargo’s going to Thomaskweld,” Cardigan answered. “Winter Plane.”
Fi whistled. “A territory capital? I can recommend a good drop-off on the outskirts—”
“The delivery point is inside the city.”
Her pen halted. Each territory on the Winter Plane ran a little differently, and Fi had operated out of the one in question for a decade—obviously why Cardigan sought her out. The frigid wilds were plenty dangerous, but capital cities housed trade wardens, regional police, the elected mortal governor. And worse. Something with claws.
“Moving anything inside the city will cost extra,” Fi said.
“Done.” Cardigan offered a slip of paper. “They’re expecting you in two days.”
Fi frowned at the address, a hotel on the city’s east side. A too-nice part of town. She resumed scribbling on her clipboard, though no actual words. Only an idiot left a paper trail, but she enjoyed watching people crane their necks trying to spy her notes. Cardigan barely recovered from his ostrich stance when Fi continued.
“Are you transporting any perishable, spillable, corrosive, explosive, or in other way hazardous materials?”
The men glanced at each other a heartbeat too long.
“No,” Cardigan replied.
Brow arched, Fi stepped to the cart and knocked her knuckles against the lower layer of boxes. In contrast to the decoy apple crates up top, these were sealed, a rattle of glass inside. “What’s in the boxes?”
Cardigan puckered. “We expected discretion.”
