The bird shifted its weight back and forth.
“It is in the northeastern United States of America.” It half spread its wings in what might have been a bird-shrug.
“So you don’t know,” Quentin said. “So finding it is part of the job.”
The bird didn’t deny it. Pixie Cut scooched forward, which wasn’t easy on the broken-backed couch, especially in a skirt that short. Her hair was black with purple highlights, and Quentin noticed a couple of blue star tattoos peeking out of her sleeves, the kind you got in a safe house. He wondered how many more she had underneath. He wondered what she’d done to end up here.
“So we’re finding and we’re stealing and I’m guessing probably doing some fighting in between. What kind of resistance are you expecting?”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Security, how many people, who are they, how scary. Is that specific enough?”
“Yes. We are expecting two.”
“Two magicians?”
“Two magicians, plus some civilian staff. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know!” The red-faced man guffawed loudly. He seemed on further examination to be a little insane.
“I do know that they have been able to place an incorporate bond on the object. The bond will have to be broken, obviously.”
A stunned silence followed this statement, then somebody made an exasperated noise. The tall man who’d been shopping for greeting cards snorted as if to say can you believe this shit?
“Those are supposed to be unbreakable,” Plum said coolly.
“You’re wasting our time!” Iridescent Glasses said.
“An incorporate bond has never been broken,” the bird said, not at all bothered—or were its feathers just slightly ruffled? “But we believe that it is theoretically possible, with the right skills and the right resources. We have all the skills we need in this room.”
“What about the resources?” Pixie Cut asked.
“The resources can be obtained.”
“So that’s also part of the job,” Quentin said. He ticked them off on his fingers. “Obtaining the resources, finding the object, breaking the bond, taking the object, dealing with the current owners. Correct?”
“Yes. Payment is two million dollars each, cash or gold. A hundred thousand tonight, the rest once we have the object. Make your decisions now. Bear in mind that if you say no you will find yourself unable to discuss tonight’s meeting with anyone else.”
Satisfied that it had made its case, the bird fluttered up to perch on top of its cage.
It was more than Quentin had expected. There were probably easier and safer ways in this world for a magician to earn two million dollars, but there weren’t many that were this quick, or that were right in front of him. Even magicians needed money sometimes, and this was one of those times. He had to get back into the swim of things. He had work to do.
“If you’re not interested, please leave now,” the cashier said. Evidently he was the bird’s lieutenant. He might have been in his mid-twenties. His black beard covered his chin and neck like brambles.
The Cro-Magnon guy stood up.
“Good luck.” He turned out to have a thick German accent. “You gonna need this, huh?”
He skimmed the greeting card into the middle of the room and left. It landed face up: GET WELL SOON. Nobody picked it up.
About a third of the room shuffled out with him, off in search of other pitches and better offers. Maybe this wasn’t the only show in town tonight. But it was the only one Quentin knew about, and he didn’t leave. He watched Plum, and Plum watched him. She didn’t leave either. They were in the same boat—she must be scrabbling too.
The red-faced guy stood against the wall by the door.
“See ya!” he said to each person as they passed him. “Buh-bye!”
When everybody who was going to leave had left the cashier closed the door again. They were down to eight: Quentin, Plum, Pixie, Red Face, Iridescent Glasses, the teenager, the Indian guy, and a long-faced woman in a flowing dress with a lock of white hair over her forehead; the last two had come in through the other door. The room felt even quieter than it had before, and strangely empty.
“Are you from Fillory?” Quentin asked the bird.
That got some appreciative laughter, though he wasn’t joking, and the bird didn’t laugh. It didn’t answer him either. Quentin couldn’t read its face; like all birds, it had only one expression.
“Before we go any further each of you must pass a simple test of magical strength and skill,” the bird said. “Lionel here”—it meant the cashier—“is an expert in probability magic. Each of you will play a hand of cards with him. If you beat him you will have passed the test.”
There were some disgruntled noises at this new revelation, followed by another round of discreet mutual scoping-out. From the reaction Quentin gathered that this wasn’t standard practice.
“What’s the game?” Plum asked.
“The game is Push.”
“You must be joking,” Iridescent Glasses said, disgustedly. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
Lionel had produced a pack of cards and was shuffling and bridging it fluently, without looking, his face blank.
“I know what I require,” the bird said stiffly. “I know that I am offering a great deal of money for it.”
“Well, I didn’t come here to play games.”
The man stood up.
“Well why the fuck did you come here?” Pixie asked brightly.
“You may leave at any time,” the bird said.
“Maybe I will.”
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob, as if he were expecting somebody to stop him. Nobody did. The door shut after him.
Quentin watched Lionel shuffle. The man obviously knew how to handle a deck; the cards leapt around obligingly in his large hands, neatly and cleanly, the way they did for a pro. He thought about the entrance exam he’d taken to get into Brakebills, what was it, thirteen years ago now? He hadn’t been too proud to take a test then. He sure as hell wasn’t now.
And he used to be a bit of a pro at this himself. Cards were stage magic, close-up magic. This was where he started out.
“All right,” Quentin said. He got up, flexing his fingers. “Let’s do it.”
He dragged a desk chair over noisily and sat down opposite Lionel. As a courtesy Lionel offered him the deck. Quentin took it.