Soldier of Fortune

As Gideon began to lay out his plan to Jinna, Killian Del entered a townhouse on Chaucer Street where he’d been invited to dine with the owners and a select number of their acquaintance.

Killian had sent his regrets for dinner, expecting to be occupied with settling Jinna Pride into his own home, but given how the evening had turned out, he’d decided to stop by for some post-dinner conversation.

As he stepped inside the foyer, the odors of rain were replaced by leather, wood, beeswax, and the echo of a woman’s spicy perfume.

Rich scents, scents Killian associated with power.

“Thought for certain you’d stood us up, Kill.”

Speaking of power . . .

Killian turned to the parlor door to see a man of average height, average weight, and average caramel-colored skin. In fact, nothing about Jessup Rand spoke of power, but between his rank, his wealth, and his family connections, the general could likely do more damage with a word than most could with a crysto-plas repeater.

“My plans misfired,” Killian explained as Jessup joined him. “It caused some delays.”

“As long as you made it,” Jessup said, leading the way into the parlor where several of Nike’s movers and shakers were comfortably ensconced amongst the deep-cushioned chairs and the buttery leather sofa.

Jessup’s wife, Celia, stood in front of the grand fireplace, gesturing with the glass in her hand. Her dark hair was cut in a cheekbone-enhancing angle which was echoed by the slash of her red, one-shouldered gown.

She was posed, as if on the stage, as she regaled her seated guests with yet another of her shocking stories.

Celia Rand, Killian had often thought, collected scandals as avidly as she collected the artifacts scattered whimsically throughout the room.

“She is a vision, is she not?” Jessup asked, but the question was soft as if he were addressing himself. “Come along, then,” he added as if shaking off the vision that was his wife. “I’ll set you up.”

Killian followed Jessup to the sideboard where an ancient bottle and two empty cans, all displaying the faintest traces of their Earth manufacture, were displayed amongst the prosaic cut-glass decanters.

Jessup selected one of the decanters and poured two glasses before handing one to Killian, who raised a brow at the three fingers of single malt in the heavy tumbler.

“You’ll need to catch up with the rest of us,” Jessup explained.

“And who are you catching up with?” Killian asked, as Jessup had been just as generous with his own liquor.

“A dutiful host doesn’t let his guest drink alone.” Jessup raised the glass in a toast.

“A point,” Killian said as he touched glasses with his host—and promptly downed half of the liquor.

“Keepers, man!” Jessup gaped. “I didn’t mean catch up on the instant!”

“My apologies,” Killian said, somewhat roughly, as the whiskey burned its way through his system. “The evening has been something of a trial.”

“Yes, well, that sort of thing does seem to be going around,” Jessup murmured.

Killian, despite the earlier disappointment, was willing to be diverted by his friend’s statement. “Trouble with the peace accords?” he asked, grasping at the most likely candidate for Jessup’s unease.

“If only.” Jessup topped off both drinks. “Though it’s true enough the negotiations are dragging. Nine months after the treaty’s signed, and we’re still dancing around the crystal issue.”

“I’d also heard there was some contention over the Adian slave trade,” Killian remarked.

“That too,” Rand agreed.

“But if, as you say, the talks aren’t the problem?” Killian prompted.

Before answering, Jessup glanced at his wife, who’d reached the climax of her tale and was now basking in a round of laughter and applause.

Seeming satisfied, he stepped closer to Killian and turned slightly away from the crowd in the center of the room. “I recently learned that a difficulty I’d thought permanently resolved has resurfaced,” he said quietly. “In fact, it resurfaced in Nike earlier this evening.”

“A difficulty?”

“A man,” Jessup clarified.

“Anyone I’m familiar with?” Killian asked over a sip.

“Only if you were paying attention to news from the ranks six—no, closer to seven years ago, now. News of an infantry colonel being court-martialed for treason and attempted murder of a superior officer.”

Killian’s brows rose. “I take it you were the superior officer in question?”

“My knee still aches on damp mornings,” Jessup confirmed. “And in Nike, every morning is damp.” He raised his glass and took a gulp as hefty as that for which he’d berated Killian earlier. “But Quinn confessed to the—to his crime—and was sentenced to Morton because of it.”

Even brimful of whiskey, Killian couldn’t miss Jessup’s quick correction. “And you believe he’s here, in Nike?”

“I know he is,” Jessup said, his expression grim. “My contact in the prison telephed the news on the day Gideon Quinn was released.”

“And you believe this man means to—wait.” Killian raised his glass, one finger extending to point at Jessup. “You say his name is Gideon Quinn?”

“A name I’ve cursed daily for seven years,” Jessup said, then his eyes tracked over Killian’s shoulder, his expression changing so drastically Killian knew someone was approaching. “Darling,” Jessup greeted his wife, “Killian’s just been telling me about his difficult evening.”

Killian took the hint. For whatever reason, Jessup didn’t want his wife to know of this problematic colonel. “As you may know,” he took his cue, turning to Celia, “the mother of my grandchild is proving difficult. After months of arguments and tantrums, I’d finally made arrangements on my own to establish her in my own home until the birth of the child.”

Celia made appropriate noises as she poured more whiskey for the men, listening with gratifying interest as Killian vented the story of the evening’s escapade.

And when he came to the point of the tall blue-eyed soldier appearing out of nowhere to best the Ohmdahls, he turned his gaze to Jessup. “I confess myself shocked to find a man of the infantry—and a colonel at that—involved with a woman of such character.”

Jessup’s facial expression remained calm, but Killian saw his eyes sharpen.

“Yes, yes, quite shocking.” Celia seemed to wave the seedier implications aside. “I am more impressed by the way you described his eyes,” she recalled with a delighted shiver. “How vividly you tell the story, Kill.”

“Perhaps I was inspired by my hostess,” Killian said with the smallest of bows.

“Celia,” Jessup broke into the moment, “it looks as if the Porters are leaving. Would you do the courtesies?”

There was the slightest of pauses, no more than three beats of the heart, as she met her husband’s gaze.

“Of course,” she said, then turned to Killian. “Kill, thank you for confiding in us. If there is anything we can do to help you with the matter, I hope you’ll not hesitate to ask.”

Killian, watching her walk away, couldn’t help but think that Jessup was a lucky man.

He turned to his host, meaning to say just that, but Jessup was also watching his wife, his expression so raw, so conflicted, it was all Killian could do to keep his own features bland as yesterday’s eggs when Jessup’s focus finally returned to him. “Vivid as my story was, I left out one vital element.” He paused, looked at Celia, then back at Jessup. “I did not tell you the soldier’s name.”

Jessup waited, saying nothing.

“The urchin called him Gideon.”