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“But…”
His tail began to lash back and forth as his claws emerged and he was aware of a stirring from the handful of customers in the tavern. Most were still sitting down, enjoying the unusual entertainment, but a few of them were edging towards the door. Frek. He usually avoided this kind of attention. The sooner this was over, the better.
He gave the owner an icy look. The man paled, then counted out a second short stack of credits. This time she nodded and slipped them into her pocket.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, but the owner only glared at both of them.
“Now get the hell out of here.”
He didn’t bother to respond, just kept one hand on her elbow as he escorted her to the door.
Outside the sky was fading to shades of red and orange in the western sky, casting an eerie glow on the tavern and the surrounding buildings. A ship soared up into the sky, leaving a fiery trail behind it, and he watched it go, idly wondering if he should book passage on the next one out. But he’d realized after the war that one place was as good as another, and jobs were plentiful here.
As much as he’d come to hate his military background, it had more than prepared him for work as a mercenary. He was fast, he was efficient, and he kept his mouth shut. He suspected it was the latter trait that had led to him being summoned to Marshall Thompson’s office that morning.
He usually picked up his jobs in taverns like the one he’d just left, or even the alleys behind them. The expensively furnished reception area had been quite a change. But being surrounded by luxury was nothing new and he’d sprawled causally in a too-small chair, his face set in its usual unreadable mask. He let his tail thump heavily on the polished stone floor, and amused himself by counting the number of nervous looks the very dignified male receptionist shot at him.
He was up to fifteen when the inner door opened and a young human female came out. She had blonde hair and a slender build, and she might have been pretty if her face hadn’t been so pale and tear-stained. Still, she carried herself with commendable dignity, nodding politely at the receptionist, and even at him before heading to the private elevator which had brought him here. Instead of pushing down as he expected, she chose to go up to the private quarters.
Interesting. A mistress, perhaps? No, he realized a moment later when the receptionist nervously directed him through the same inner door. The resemblance was unmistakable - the same pale blonde hair and elegant bone structure, although in Marshall’s case the effect was chilling rather than attractive. Expensively and impeccably dressed, he surveyed Celenk coldly from behind a massive desk. Symbols of his wealth were everywhere, from the expensive art on the walls to the highly detailed inlay on the desk, but it was the male who drew his attention.
On the surface he appeared to be nothing but a very successful businessman, but Celenk knew better. The legitimate business was simply a cover for far less salubrious - and far more profitable - activities. Marshall was suspected of being involved in at least half of the illegal activity in Port Cantor and studying him now, Celenk found he believed it. But then many of his clients were on the shadier side of the law.
“You sent for me?”
“Yes. I have a job for you, outside of Port Cantor.”
Interesting. As far as he knew, most of the illegal activity on Cresca occurred in the city, not the far more primitive countryside. He knew better than to tip his hand so he kept his mouth shut and waited. A flicker of what could have been annoyance crossed the male’s face at his silence, before it resumed the previous arctic expression.
“I require a survey.”
That was unexpected. His talents were in other directions.
“I haven’t done any surveying work.”
Marshall waved a dismissive hand.
“Not an issue. I will provide you with a device. You will simply need to carry it with you. It will gather the information I need and send it back to me.”
It sounded simple enough, but there was always a catch.
“Why me?”
Marshall steepled his fingers together.
“The property I want surveyed belongs to someone else. I tried sending a human last time, but it did not go well.”
“Why not?”
“The farm is owned by a group of former warriors. Alliance warriors.”
Frek. The last thing he wanted was more reminders of the war.
“That’s very interesting but-”
“I am prepared to pay handsomely.”
“How handsomely?”
