Inside the safehouse, it was a different story. Once one got through the complicated locks that Verci and Win had installed, it was almost—not quite, but almost—like a cozy home. There was a stove and icebox, large table, cots, an office that Miss Josie would sometimes work out of when she was around, and a warehouse floor that held Kennith’s carriage and horse stables, Almer’s chemical lab, and Verci’s workbench.
When Mila arrived, Asti was at the table with a bunch of papers, talking with Miss Josie. Win was curled up on a cot, and Almer, Kennith, Mister Gin, and Julien were all at the other end of the table, eating bread, cheese, and stew.
“Where’s Helene?” Julien asked when he saw her carrying the crossbow kit.
“She went straight home,” Mila said. “She said you ought to do the same.”
“Right,” he said with a nod, getting up from the table. “Have to work tomorrow.”
“Night, Jules,” everyone said as the big guy left.
“And Verci?” Mila asked.
“Leg broken,” Asti said. “It’s set, and I brought him home to Raych.”
Mila raised an eyebrow as she sat down with Asti and Miss Josie. Miss Josie gave Mila a slight nod, which was typically the limit of direct interaction Mila ever had with the woman. She knew—blazes, she had always heard the stories—that Josie Holt had once ruled the criminal underground in all of Seleth. Now all she had left, apparently, was this crew and a few remnants of her empire. Even still, she had such a strength of presence that Mila couldn’t help but be a little cowed by it, even though she was a small woman with graying hair and a walking cane. Miss Josie couldn’t claim credit for taking down Mendel Tyne, but getting rid of him had helped her from losing further ground in the neighborhood.
“What did we get?” Mila asked Asti.
“Verci grabbed a few papers, most of which involve the purchase of properties in North Seleth,” Asti said, thumbing through the sheets. “There aren’t specifics about who the purchases are for. It may be that the details we need are not here.”
Mila picked up a file and looked at the pages. “So we didn’t get anything?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Asti put some sheets to the side. “While most of these don’t name names, or even companies, they all are marked on the bottom with Andrendon Project.”
“Like this one,” Mila said, holding her file.
“No, that’s nothing. So far there’s no sense of who or what the Andrendon Project is—”
“It’s right here,” Mila said. She wasn’t the best reader, but she could make out her letters and words well enough.
“What do you have there?”
Mila did her best to read it, sounding out the words. “It’s a purchase order of material for the Andrendon Project.”
Asti snatched the file out of her hands. “How did I not see this?”
“You’re not exactly at your sharpest,” Josie said softly.
“True,” Asti said. “All right, this might be something, then. It doesn’t say much, but it does have an account listed for billing. The Creston Group.”
“Is that a company?” Josie asked. “So what are they buying the land for?”
“Far too soon to think about that,” Asti said. “For all we know, it’s just another layer between Chell and the buyers, or one member of the Creston Group is using it to protect their identity, or . . . there’s a lot of things this might mean.”
“But it’s a lead,” Mila said.
“It’s a lead, the first real one we’ve had,” Asti said.
“We’ve got something?” Kennith asked from the other end of the table. Those boys all approached.
“We’ve got something to look into,” Asti said. “Creston Group.”
“What is that?” Almer asked.
“Sounds like a formal association,” Mister Gin said.
“What does that mean?” Kennith asked.
“Whatever the group is, it’s making a purchase, right?” Mister Gin said. “You want to be able to do business under the name of something—like, say, a theatrical troupe, that’s how I know that—you have to declare who you are so the city knows how to classify what you are, how to tax you, and so forth.”
“You think this Creston Group is one of those?” Asti asked.
“Likely,” Mister Gin said. “And if it is, then the right city offices have paperwork on it.”
“I’ll look into it,” Asti said. “We should probably all rest, and tomorrow start investigating the Creston Group.” The rest all nodded and went off, Josie limping her way over to her office.
“Tomorrow, I presume that’s going to be you and me, right?” Mila asked Asti.
“Yeah, I got a plan cooking,” Asti said. “And it’s one that’s just you and me. Saints know Verci won’t be up for it.”
Mila nodded. Saints knew that Raych wouldn’t let Verci out her sight.
Chapter 5
VERCI WOKE SUDDENLY, his body infused with pain. There was the dull, throbbing pain in his leg, and the pounding, splitting pain in his skull. He also, for a moment, didn’t know where he was.
His own bed, in the apartment over the Junk Avenue Bakery. No idea how he got there. Also, sunlight was streaming through the closed shutters, so it was clearly morning.
He didn’t remember much, save four Fuergan whiskeys.
That was what caused the headache, certainly. Verci only had vague memories once they went into Kimber’s, but he remembered the whiskeys. He could still feel them in his throat. Somewhere after the whiskeys Asti must have gotten him home.
“Bah!” Corsi was on the bed with him, curled up in the crook of Verci’s arm.
“Hello,” Verci said to his baby son. “Good morning to you as well.”
“Bu-bah!”
“I agree,” Verci said. “We should seek out your mother.”
Verci pulled off the covers and saw his foot. It was wrapped up in a mess of bandages, and it didn’t hurt like it had last night, but he still was in pain. That was the best he could hope for, really. He stretched forward and gently probed the bandage with his fingers.
Shooting pain.
There was no need to try to walk on it, then.
“Geh bah?” Corsi crawled over to Verci’s foot.
“Yeah, your pop really messed up,” Verci said.
“That’s for certain.”
Raych stood in the doorframe, a cup of tea in her hand. Somehow she managed to look gorgeous, even with flour on her face.
“I don’t suppose that tea is for me, is it?” Verci asked.
“It is,” she said. “It shouldn’t be, but it is.” She came over and handed him the tea, then scooped up baby Corsi. Verci sipped the tea and slid backward so he could sit up against the wall.
“So, my memory of last night is foggy,” he said. “But I presume you have a series of choice words for me.”
“Oh, I did,” Raych said. “I used them on your brother, who took them like a kicked dog. It did take some of the steam out of me.”
“Still, if you want to tell me how stupid I am—”
“You are very stupid.” She sighed. “You’re broken right now, thanks to your brother . . .”
“Not his—”
She quickly interjected. “But you’re also not in jail, and that’s also thanks to your brother. Even though . . .”
She sat silently for a moment.
“Even though?” Verci prompted.
She sighed. “I know why Asti is bent to blazes on going after these mysterious people behind the fire. He . . . he needs a project, he needs someone to focus his anger on.”
“Right,” Verci said. This was a conversation they had been dancing around for the past month or so.
“But we—Verci, we’ve now got this bakery, this apartment, and supposedly there’s money to keep p
aying the debt on the burned-down shop. I even understand why you insist on that . . .”
“It’s because—”
“I know why,” she said, a bit of snap in her voice. “I understand why you think that matters. But . . .”
“But?”
“Isn’t that enough?” she asked. “We’re all right. We’ll be all right.”
“For now,” Verci said.
“Isn’t that all anyone gets?” she asked. “But you—you could have died. You could have been arrested. And for what? Asti’s mad quest?”
“It isn’t mad,” Verci said. “Asti isn’t . . .”
He almost said that Asti isn’t mad, but that wasn’t true. Asti hadn’t had one of his spells—or, at least, hadn’t told Verci about one—since the night at Tyne’s. But Asti was hardly a model of sanity. And Raych was right about one thing: focusing on this job, going after whoever was ultimately behind the fire, it kept Asti’s head together.
“I can’t just abandon him,” Verci ultimately said.
“Well, you aren’t running around, breaking into buildings on that foot,” Raych said.
“See, I’ll be staying out of trouble now.”
She glowered at him. “Doc Gelson popped into the bakery already this morning. He says no weight on that foot for at least two weeks, and to go see him in his office in a couple days.”
“Right,” Verci said. “Which means I need to get around without putting weight on my foot.” A challenge for him to solve.
“It means you should stay in bed—”
“Nonsense,” Verci said, drinking the rest of his tea. “For one, I have to use the water closet, and I hardly think you want to play nursemaid to me for the next two weeks and beyond.”
She scowled. “No, but—”
“Because you have a bakery to run, a baby to care for . . .”
“I’ve brought Lian in to help in the bakery.” Raych’s sister.
“Did you tell her what happened?”
“That you fell down the stairs while carrying a bag of flour?” Raych said with fake sweetness. “Yes, of course I did.”
“Good,” Verci said. He handed her the now empty teacup. “In the meantime, I’ll need to make some crutches. But first—” He rolled off the bed and landed on his hands, feet high in the air. Walking on his hands, he made his way across the room.
“Verci!” Raych squealed.
“I told you, love,” he said as he flashed an upside-down smile. “I really need to use the water closet.”
* * *
Asti barely slept. Too many things swirling in his head. Too much blame, too much anger. Sleep was worse. When he was asleep, nothing held the beast on its chain.
Well before dawn broke, he was on task for the next step in what they needed to do. They had a name for an organization, now to put a few faces on it. Gin had the right idea—if the Creston Group was a formal association, then there would have to be paperwork filed with the right city offices. And over the night, a plan for how to get what they needed.
Most everyone else had left, even the Old Lady, wherever she slipped off to when she left here. Except Mila, curled up on one of the cots. Like him, she spent more nights in the safehouse than not. He felt guilty about that, but mostly because he was breaking the rules, and he was letting Mila do it as well. They were supposed to maintain their cover, pretend like they were still living a normal, legit West Maradaine life. He should be spending every night in his room at Kimber’s, and Mila should . . .
Mila should be sleeping in alleys and under bridges, to maintain her cover. That’s why he never made a thing about her sleeping here.
The sun would be up soon. Time to put the plan in motion. He grabbed some paper and ink from the office, and wrote out a few things. Then he selected some clothes from the wardrobe of costumes Gin had pulled together and laid them out by Mila.
“Wake up, get dressed.”
Bleary eyed, Mila squinted at him. “What time is it?”
“Bit past six bells, but I’ve got a plan.”
“A six bells in the morning plan?” she asked, sitting up. “That’s not your usual plan.”
“Just hurry up.”
“Is there tea? Breakfast? Is that part of your plan?”
“Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll get you some bread and preserves, deal?”
“Deal,” she said.
He went off to the kitchen and got the kettle going. In a few minutes she joined him, dressed in the clothes he laid out for her. A smart skirt and waistcoat, the kind that Uni girls would wear when not in uniform, especially the ones who went to work in offices or courts. For his part, Asti had dressed in the same sort of style, so he looked like any other clerk or bookman in the city.
“Fancier than you usually have me wear.”
“You’ve been working with Pilsen on accents, yes?”
“Some,” Mila said.
“Give me your best college girl.”
She smirked. “You want a Mary or a Royal?”
“I honestly don’t believe you can make the distinction.”
“Not really,” she said, doing a passable job of an educated girl. “Mister Gin insists there is a difference, but I’m not hearing it.”
“That’ll do. Worst case, you’ll come off like a Westie who went to U of M.” He thought about it as he passed over her tea and bread. “That might even work.”
“So what’s the plan, and why is it so absurdly early?”
“It’s early because we’ve got to get to Inemar before eight bells, and the streets are going to be packed by seven.”
“What’s in Inemar?”
“The city archives,” Asti said. “Eat up, everyone’s got to work this morning.”
“Right,” Mila said. “Poor Helene.”
* * *
“Pooooooooooooooooooooork and cheese! Get it hot! Get your hot goxies! Get your pooooooooooooooork and cheese!”
This was the center of the sinners’ blazes, where Helene was forced to work her trade each morning. Slinging Monic-style pork sandwiches—goxies—from the shop underneath the apartment she shared with her cousin.
This was the deal she had worked out—the cover of still being a broke North Seleth girl who lost everything in the fire. So she and Julie had an apartment, “rented” from Mister Inderick in exchange for them working the goxie stand each morning and lunch. Julie made the goxies—and he did a damn fine job of that, Helene had to admit—and she was in the window, selling to the morning crowd.
And there had to be a crowd. Mister Inderick made it very clear that they had to sell at least a certain amount, or they’d be out on their ears.
Helene had to laugh at that. She had her share of tens of thousands of crowns, just waiting for the Old Lady to call it safe and dole it out. That was Baroness money. She could move to Monim and hire muscle-bound boys to feed her goxies.
But the money wasn’t safe, and they had to maintain appearances. The only money they had access to was the bit Josie and Asti had put with some creditor account for “job expenses.” Whatever that meant. Helene didn’t quite understand what the difference between goldsmith notes and creditor accounts were, but both were things a person used when they had a lot of money. Helene would far rather deal with real coins. Helene understood one thing: this business with creditor accounts meant no coin in her pocket right now, save what she earned slinging goxies with Julie.
“Watcha got for me, Kesser?”
Ren Poller was at her window with Ia, that blonde mountain of a Bardinic woman. Ia had taken up wearing a fur cap, probably to replace the green newsboy cap Helene had taken from her.
“I’ve got goxies for five ticks, and nothing else,” Helene said. “You want?”
“Yeah, give us four,” Poller said, flipping a crown at her. “Ia’s a hungry girl.”
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br /> “Why are you working with meat, girl?” Ia said, her Bardinic accent thicker than the pork fat in the air. “You cannot fight anymore?”
“You wanna spar?” Helene asked. “I could use another hat.”
“Helene!” Julie yelled from the stoves. “Order up!”
Helene grabbed the goxies, wrapped in yesterday’s newsprint. “Four more,” she told Julie.
“Four more, aye,” Julie said.
“Hey, Dusky!” Helene yelled at the customer who was waiting near the window. “Got yours.”
“Took long enough,” he muttered, grabbing the sandwiches and stalking away.
“Real charmer, Hel,” Ren said.
“Your order’s in,” Helene said. “Step to the left. Next!”
The next order up started to step to the window, but off of a glare from Ren, he stayed back.
“I saw something funny last night, Hel,” Ren said.
“Well, I’m glad you bought a mirror. Step to the left.”
“Verci Rynax came into Kimber’s last night. Or, rather, he was carried by his brother.”
“I’ve got goxies to sell, I don’t care about gossip.”
“Ain’t the Rynaxes your boys?”
Helene scowled at Ren. “Known them since I was a kid. Same as you.”
“But they are your friends, sjat?” Ia asked, leaning into the counter. “You are around them much, sjat?”
Helene wasn’t sure what “sjat” meant in Bardinic, but she felt vaguely insulted. Though maybe it just meant “yes.” “Sometimes,” she said, while trying to get the next in line to give his order. “But I’m not mother or wife to either of them.”
“So you don’t know what they were up to last night?”
“I try not to have late nights, Poller,” she said, taking the order and money from the next customer.
“Right, because you have to work here,” Ren said.
“That is why she is not dusting knuckles,” Ia added.
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