Tides Collection

6. Machinations-2

It wasn’t until late the next morning that they were allowed out of customs, into the city. Rina Saalesh went to the nearest worthy inn. It was one of the multitudes crowded near the harbor, this one called The Grace’s Hospice. The moment she checked in, she disappeared into her room and didn’t emerge again for several days.

* * *

Syrina woke up on the floor next to the bed, almost twenty-four hours after she fell asleep, Triglav was outside on the windowsill, gazing in at her with curious sleepy eyes.

She felt more rested than she had in a long while, despite her lack of need for much sleep. She’d found it hard to relax at sea and allowing herself an extended rest fit with Rina’s image if anyone was watching. She let Triglav in through the window and dressed not as Rina, but as a peasant boy in the rough clothes of a temple messenger. She wanted to breathe in some of the sights of Fom before she got to work. But first, she filled the round limestone basin with hot water and took a bath.

* * *

It was drizzling, but it was summer this far south, and it wasn’t cold. She didn’t mind the rain—good thing since it was almost always raining in Fom—and she jogged along, taking in the sights and smells and sounds of the Crescent City while looking like she knew where she was going. Sure enough, no one messed with a temple boy while he was working.

As Syrina’s first time in Fom, the thing that struck her most was the absurd amount of people everywhere, and that was coming from Eheene, which wasn’t a small city by anyone’s standards.

They crowded onto the wooden sidewalks and spilled into streets paved with mud or stone. They huddled in alleys and sat along the curbs and bunched in clusters between covered holes along the lanes which vomited coils of greasy gray steam. In Eheene, no one was poor. If you were poor or got poor, you lost your citizenship, and it was away to the District with you or one of the coastal peasant towns where you could eke out an existence fishing or farming until you got rich enough to move back to the city.

Here, everyone seemed poor. Everyone but the handful of wealthy merchants and Church officials who hurried by, sequestered in carriages pulled by disgruntled camels which grunted and spit at anyone in their way, or in rickshaws pulled by disgruntled men who swore at the crowds under their breath. Everything, everyone was saturated in the combined stench of brine and mud and mildew, and over all of it was the stink of humanity.

Most of the buildings in the section of Fom behind the harbor were packed together, two or three stories high, and made of wood painted with faded shades of red and white. Syrina recalled the maps she’d mulled over on the voyage and made her way into the heart of the city, where the exporter Stysha N’nareth kept her residence and her office.

She trotted for a little more than an hour until she reached the Grace’s Parish. Homes here were palatial, built from the same grayish-green limestone as the cliffs the city was built on. The docks were all muddy streets and wooden houses, but parks scattered further inland, filled with trees and wide-leafed ferns. Streets in the Grace’s Parish were paved with reddish flagstones, and the stout, flimsy houses near the harbor turned into gated estates that slouched behind high sandstone walls. The vents to the Tidal Works, shoddy manholes and moldy clay pipes manholes around the harbor, were sculpted here into fish or dragons, and the steam came in puffs from their noses or mouths.

N’nareth lived and worked out of one such estate. It loomed out of the rain behind a high hedge and a thick bulwark of pocked, greenish stone. Syrina ran past it as if the temple boy was heading to the Parish’s Cathedral another three long blocks further on.

Then she doubled back, looked around to make sure no one was paying attention, and dropped behind a billowing fern where she could get a clear view of the gate. She’d thought about coming here n***d to check things out, but she wanted to look like something other than a Kalis if she decided to talk to someone. There were two entrances. One was a small unmarked bronze gate in the stone wall surrounding the three terraces of the house. Syrina figured that one must lead to the N’nareth residence. The other one was made of heavy wood. It stood open to the wide stone path that led to the front door, marked by a sign written in elegant N’naradin—Stysha N’nareth, Importer. Syrina hunkered down on her heels as comfortably as someone squatting in a fern was able to, and spent the rest of the day watching the comers and goers.

If there was one thing she’d learned through the lens of Rina Saalesh, it was that it was good to see what sort of people someone did business with before going into business with them herself. Even if her business was to pump them for information and then maybe kill them. Especially if her business was to pump them for information and then maybe kill them. So she didn’t regret spending the rest of that day or the next three squatting in a bush, even if only nine people came in and out of N’nareth’s office the whole time. Sometimes, nine was enough.

The first one was the biggest surprise. Judging by his weathered skin, colorful clothes, and the emeralds studded across the top of his bald head, he was from Ristro, and not just a Church convert either. It wasn’t unheard of for the N’naradin to do business with the Corsairs, but Syrina had thought it was in the tolerated black market, not with a prominent importer. People who paid their Salvation Taxes usually didn’t want to risk such shady associates.

His presence made Syrina begin to worry about her supposed in with N’nareth. If the importer’s customer already had a line on actual Ristroan merchandise, what chance did Ormo’s counterfeits have at holding up to either N’nareth’s scrutiny or her interest?

The majority of the other visitors were Church officials. They wore the red and white of the Grace’s officiates, and some were women, and some were men, but beyond that, it was impossible to glean anything. Some were in and out in five minutes, others were there for the better part of an hour. Their presence could’ve been nothing or the answer to all Syrina’s questions. She didn’t know enough to get anything out of it either way. She noted the faces in case they came up again and waited more.

The last one came a half-hour before dark on the fourth night. The servant was just coming out to lock up the gate. He was tall, maybe twelve hands, and balding, though he sported bushy gray eyebrows and an even bushier black mustache. What was left of the hair on his head was black with streaks of gray, pulled back into a short, taut ponytail. He carried a leather satchel small enough to carry with one hand and big enough to hold just about anything. When he came out, he was empty-handed and looked angry.

Syrina hesitated a second to consider what she might lose by not squatting in the fern any longer, then hurried after him, forcing a few tears down the artificial flesh that covered her face.

* * *

“Sir?” the boy mumbled. It took Helrith Caff a second to realize that the kid was talking to him.

Caff slowed his pace to let the boy catch up while he fought down his own rising impatience. The child’s life had been a lot harder than his. He sighed, thinking of Heaven. If it got back to the temple that he’d blown off one of their messengers, the Grace only knew how high they’d jack up his Salvation Taxes just so he could get into the same middling level of Heaven he was already paying through the nose for.

“Yes, boy, what is it?”

“I… I think I’m in trouble, sir. Can you help me?” The kid—not quite a child, Helrith saw now, just stunted—sniffled and waited for him to nod before continuing. “I was sent with a message from the Customs House for a Miss N’nareth. It’s just that I don’t read and I got lost. I… I took a nap, and now I lost the letter, too.”

Helrith raised his eyebrows, but he wanted to go home. This shouldn’t be any of his business. Anyway, it was embarrassing to be seen with the boy.

“I’m sorry to hear of your troubles, but I suppose now you’ve learned that you shouldn’t sleep when you’re supposed to be doing your job.”

“Please, sir. You don’t understand. He’ll beat me. He might kill me if he finds out I lost it.”

Helrith paused. “Who will kill you?”

“Master N’nef. Keeper of the Boys down at the Custom House.”

“He beats you?”

“If we make mistakes. Will you help?”

Helrith frowned. “I don’t see that there’s much I can do.”

Fresh tears were began to swell in the boy’s green eyes. “I just want to find Miss N’nareth. Maybe she’ll, you know… lie for me. Tell N’nef she got the message. Maybe she’s just, you know, nice. Do you know where she is?”

Helrith had stopped walking and turned to face him. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Everyone calls me Cavi, sir.”

“Well, Cavi, I know Miss N’nareth, but I don’t know if she’ll lie for you like that or not.” Helrith narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what the message was? Maybe we could deliver it together. You know, just tell her.”

Cavi thought for a moment, frowning and wiping his eyes. “Like I said, I don’t read, and they never tell me anything. I’m just a temple boy. N’nef was really mad about something before he gave me the letter, though. He was yelling about Salvation Taxes and other stuff to another man I never saw before.”

“Other stuff? Like what?”

“Fees or something. I don’t know. Maybe the yelling didn’t have anything to do with it, but he gave me the message right after, and he said to hurry. That was this morning, and now I’ve been out here all day…” Cavi’s his voice quavered. He bit his lip.

“There’s no need for slavering.” Helrith tried not to roll his eyes when the boy could see him do it. “Clean yourself up, and we’ll go back to Miss N’nareth’s place together. It’s not far from here. We’ll think of something to tell her. Now tell me everything you remember.”

They started walking back to N’nareth’s building, Helrith keeping pace with Cavi’s uncertain steps. The boy sniveled and never looked up from where his worn shoes splashed on the wet flagstones. Caff couldn’t help thinking of the kid as a child, even though he was at least twelve or thirteen. It wasn’t just his diminutive size. There was something miserable about him that filled Helrith with pity, like a toddler looking for his mother in a crowded market.

“What am I going to tell her?” Cavi whined. “From what I hear—” He gave a furtive glance at Helrith before turning his eyes back to the ground.

“Hear what?” Helrith tried not to look interested.

“Just that, Miss N’nareth, that… maybe she’s nice enough, but if you mess up she can… you know. She knows people.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve been N’nareth’s accountant for years, and I can assure you she’s no one to be afraid of. I—”

“Oh, no, no. Of course not. I never—I mean, I bet that bastard N’nef talks like that because he’s the crooked one. Maybe she’s got something on him.”

“Ah, you heard this from this N’nef, did you?” Helrith slowed his pace and stopped a half-block from where N’nareth’s gate stood closed. He turned to Cavi and leaned down. “Can you can remember what N’nef was yelling about before he gave you the message? I mean, specifically?”

“I try not to pay too much attention to what N’nef is yelling about unless he’s yelling at me. Something about Corsairs and accountants who hid money. And some name. Lees, I think.”

“Lees? What about this Lees?” Helrith didn’t hide the sudden tinge of urgency from his voice.

“Um, I don’t know. His stuff is disappearing or something, or maybe it’s money that’s disappearing. I don’t know. I couldn’t understand a lot of it, and like I said, I was trying not to pay attention.” Cavi stepped back a pace. “Look, sir, I didn’t mean anything. I’m sure…”

It became obvious Helrith wasn’t listening. He was looking into the street with two fingers pressed against his lips, thoughts far away.

His focused switched all at once to Cavi, as if remembering the boy was there. “I just remembered. I forgot something I have to do at home, and now I’m late for it. I’m sorry. See that building there? That’s N’nareth’s building. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just…I’d rather you not mention our little conversation to her, all right? For your own good, mind you. She won’t want to help you if she thinks you’ve been telling me rumors about her.”

He was already walking away from Cavi, who looked like he was going to start crying again.

“Good luck,” Helrith called over his shoulder.

“Wait,” Cavi called, but his voice was feeble through the rising tears, and Helrith was already too far away to hear.

* * *

Syrina lingered in front of the gate until Helrith vanished from view. Then she doubled around the block and began the long walk back to the Grace’s Hospice.

She vaguely regretted that she hadn’t approached the Ristroan when she’d seen him the first day, but she didn’t have a good story ready to convince a pirate to help her. Anyway, while she was pretty good at pitching her voice to get what she wanted out of people, she couldn’t plan on it working with people from cultures she wasn’t familiar with. She’d gotten lucky with Helrith anyway, and she told herself she should be happy with what she got. She’d been ready with a this is Church business speech, but he’d seemed willing enough to help, even if it was just to see what sort of gossip he could get out of a frightened temple boy.

this is Church businessSo Helrith was N’nareth’s accountant or at least one of them, but he had no idea what the hell was going on either, except that he’d heard of Lees and had his suspicions. That meant someone else was handling the actual numbers. Syrina’s tin was on Ka’id. The Skald accountant was already handling Lees, and she was versed in N’naradin law. She was safer, too. Whoever was at the top of all this would want as few eyes as they could manage looking their way. Ka’id handling both ends kept things nice and tidy. As long as N’nareth kept a legitimate local accountant like Helrith around, the Church wouldn’t have any reason to look for the real numbers. It also meant the importer must know something, after all.

When Syrina got back to The Grace’s Hospice, Triglav was sitting on the top of the bedpost she’d left him on, staring at the door with a curious look in his huge eyes, tinged with what she imagined was annoyance, as if he’d been wondering where she was. She decided she’d let him follow along when she went out in the morning.