Outrageous Fortune-Errant Freight Book One

Chapter 17

The thud of the tram changing tracks brought Rory's attention up from the paper, which he'd been not so much reading as absorbing, moving from the Tenjin ad to an op-ed on the ethics of forced labor in the crystal fields and thence to a review of Founding Fortune! The Musical—and quite scathing it was—enough that Rory could resist the itching urge to peek at the bearded bloke.

Moments after the change, the conductor announced Tempest Park and Rory stood up.

As the door opened, he caught a whiff of damp stone and a glance out the window confirmed the promised rain had begun.

"Lovely," he muttered and folded the paper into the pack before slinging it over his shoulder and stepping out into the wet.

Once on the walk he shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and headed left on Tempest Park Avenue, which led away from the Keeper-protected park and past a number of small shops. As he walked, the smattering of rain increased, so he joined the other umbrella-less commuters in hugging the sides of the clustered buildings, taking advantage of the occasional awning in hopes of avoiding a complete wetting, while along the road, the streetlamps flickered to life.

Rory, hunkered against the rain, looked down at the shining pavement, where the lamplight reflected like Illyrian opals.

And where had that bit of fancy come from? He shook his head and, with the other building huggers, weaved his way down the street, paying no more heed to the many shop displays than he did the poetically glistening cobbles. He did, once, spare a glance for the Adidan pomegranates on display at the grocer's—it still surprised him to see Coalition goods in the colonies—and he stopped cold in front of the tea stall for several moments, as if considering a cuppa in the dry.

In fact, he only wanted to confirm he was still being followed and, sure enough, there was the cargo drone, his russet beard dripping, seemingly engrossed in yon pomegranates, four shops back.

There was no overt sign of Eitan, but if he tried to view the street only from the corner of his eye, Rory could see the occasional rushing pedestrian swerving to the right or umbrella twisting left of their path, as if avoiding a puddle. A mobile, Eitan-sized puddle.

It was not a reassuring view.

It became less reassuring when the red-bearded man looked up and suddenly he and Rory were staring at one another through the curtain of rain.

"Ha." Rory's breath plumed out in a rush of nerves.

Redbeard's own mouth twitched in a rueful grin just before Rory spun on his heel and sped down the street, hitching the pack higher on his shoulder as he wound, hopped, and sidled through the press of foot traffic, until he reached a narrow alley to his right and ducked into it, where he promptly discovered the term "alley" might be an overstatement.

Sure and the space had certain alley-like characteristics—loose pavers, bits of compostable matter from sources unknown, and only a few slender rectangles of light from the upper windows of the left-hand building—but while it had the dressings of an alley, it boasted little in the way of bins or back doors. Most importantly, it lacked an opening onto any other street, being backed as it was by the towering rear wall of a Marlowe Street tavern called Here's One in Your Eye.

In short, there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

Which was why when, halfway down the road...path...track to nowhere, and Rory heard the telltale splash of large boots and a rolling gravel sound that suggested a large man clearing his throat and the spark-to-thrum of a shooter powering up, he shrugged, turned to face he of the ginger beard, and smiled. "Can I help you then?"