Drift Stories/Hands Off the Merchandise

⚠	This story is a work in progress.

Ilyar sat on the corner of the bar, nursing a glass of brandy in one hand and cradling his head in the other. On the stool beside him sat Bentley, resting their head gently against his arm.

“I’m bored out of my mind here, captain,” Bentley grumbled, kicking their boots against the bar. “When do we get out in the Drift again? The ship’s probably forgotten me by now.”

Ilyar shot a glance out across the mostly empty bar. The pink-purple glow of the Drift bled softly in through the windows at the far end. It had been almost a month since they arrived back at the Cloud Archipelago, and despite his best efforts he had yet to find any jobs worth taking. He looked down at the raccoon, who was now spinning on the barstool. “Where are Solivane and Quartz?”

“Quartz is down on the promenade, something about a new sidearm? Sol is—“ Bentley stopped spinning facing the door. “—here.”

Solivane strode towards them, immaculate white robes drifting gracefully behind them, and dropped an envelope on the bar in front of Ilyar. “This was delivered to the ship. The messenger was most insistent that you read it immediately.”

Ilyar opened the envelope and extracted a carefully folded origami hare. Before he could unfold it, it fluttered gracefully onto the bar and began hopping around with a trail of purple sparkles. Bentley stared at it with unconcealed glee. After a few hops and a rather impressive somersault, the hare flattened itself out into a small square letter with an ornate gilded edge and glistening purple script. Ilyar picked it up and began to read.

Captain Ilyar of the Stationary Traveller, Your presence is most humbly requested this evening in the High Spire Hall. I have a matter of the utmost importance to discuss. Come with discretion, and bring your officers.

The letter was signed with the seal of the Cloud Archipelago, and a large handwritten signature: Kyrie.

“Officers? There’s only us!” laughed Bentley. “Who is this Kyrie? Beautiful penwork, whoever they are.”

Solivane cleared their throat. “Kyrie is the closest thing the Cloud Archipelago has to a leader. She controls most of the arms trade across the charted Drift.” They looked out the far windows at the shimmering purple. “We shall either leave with a job to do, or in body bags.”

Ilyar drained the last of his brandy, flicked a few shiny silver marks into the empty glass, and stood. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep her waiting. Sol, fetch Quartz and meet us back at the ship; we ought to make a good impression.”

***

The glass-walled elevator car made its way slowly up the side of the High Spire, the luxurious crown perched atop the Cloud Archipelago’s expanse. Inside, the four members of the Stationary Traveller’s crew stood waiting. Though they tried not to show it, the tension was palpable.

Ilyar, his grey-brown fur brushed smooth and the brass buttons on his coat shining, fixed his gaze on the soft glow of the Drift outside. Bentley stood to his side, running their fingers through the fur on his arms in an attempt to soothe their anxiety. Solivane, meanwhile, was explaining the etiquette of meeting an arms dealer feared across the Multiverse to Quartz, whose golden-brown ears were twitching with excitement.

"Let the captain do the talking. Speak only when you are spoken to, and always address her as 'Lady Kyrie'," Solivane explained, adjusting their robes to geometric perfection.

Bentley looked round. "Really? Are we meeting a merchant or a god?"

"On this driftstation Kyrie may as well be a god, Bentley," said Solivane sharply, "Please do not let your big mouth get us into trouble." Bentley winked conspiratorially and made a zipping motion across their mouth.

Quartz smoothed down her ears with a paw; they sprang straight back up. "Everyone on the station knows who she is, but very few ever get to meet her. We're lucky, I guess. Lucky, or in a lot of trouble."

The elevator car came to a smooth stop, dinged, and the doors slid open almost silently. "Stick close," said Ilyar, stepping forward into the lobby.

This was a very different place from the utilitarian grime of the station promenade. A deep red strip of carpet ran over the black marble floor from the elevator to a grand set of stained-wood doors on the far side, flanked by two ermine guards with pristine white fur. Ilyar strode confidently across the carpet, his crew following; Bentley kept tight by his side, always a step behind. In practised form the guards pushed open the huge doors as they approached.