On the first morning I hired an investigator to hunt for the boy. I had the money for it, money by the bucket-load.
On the second morning I paid a priest to say prayers and light candles for Hennan, though I was far from sure whether a few candles would induce God to watch out for a heathen.
On the third morning I decided that having a conscience was definitely over-rated and resolved to see a doctor in order to obtain some form of medication for my ailment. Worrying about other people, especially some peasant boy from the wilds, wasn’t me at all.
? ? ?
Umbertide is a city of narrow alleys, whose cobbles are lit but briefly when at the zenith of each day the sun dips its fingers deep into each crevice and cranny. Along these shadowed ways men come and go about their business—their business being other people’s business. These messengers bound on errands, bearing credit notes, invoices, transactions recorded and notarized, bring with them droplets of information, rumour, scandal and intrigue, and draw together to form a river, flowing from one archive to the next, filling and emptying vaults. You would think the blood of Umbertide gold but it runs ink-black: information holds more value and is easier to carry.
And today one among those many men was bound upon my business, carrying, I hoped, some small fact valuable to me.
The restaurant door opened and after some negotiations amid a huddle of waiters the ma?tre d’ led a tall thin man, still wrapped in the blackness of his street-cloak, to my table.
“Sit.” I waved a hand at the chair opposite. He smelled of sweat and spice. “Try the quails’ eggs, they’re wonderfully . . . expensive.” I’d been pushing an exquisite meal around three highly decorated Ling plates for some while now. Caviar from Steppes sturgeons, tiny anchovies in plum sauce, artistically spattered across the porcelain, mushrooms stuffed with garlic and chives, thin strips of cured ham . . . none of it appealed, though it would require a full piece of crown gold to pay the bill.
The man took his seat and turned a face, as long and angular as his body toward me, ignoring the eggs.
“I found him. Debtors’ cells for Central, over on Piatzo.”
“Excellent.” Irritation wrestled relief. Damned if I knew why I’d wasted good money on an investigator—I could have guessed he’d end up behind bars somewhere. But a debtors’ prison? “You’re sure it’s him?”
“We don’t get many northerners in Umbertide—well, not pale-as-milk, godless heathen northerners anyway, and not like him.” He pushed a small roll of parchment across the table. “The address and his case number. Let me know if I can be of further service.” And with that he stood, a waiter swooping to escort him from the premises.
I uncoiled the parchment and stared at the number as if it might unravel the path that led a penniless child to a debtors’ cell, or perhaps even answer the more vexing question—why I had wasted both time and money hunting him down? At least it had turned out to be surprisingly quick and easy to find him. The next thing to do was to set him up safe and secure somewhere he wouldn’t run away from. Then perhaps I could recover from my inconvenient and thankfully rare attack of conscience.
The year I spent at the Mathema had armed me with the expectation that numbers held secrets, but had failed to give me the tools to reveal them. I’d been a poor student and the minor mathmagicians tasked with my training soon despaired of me. The only corner of numbers that I had any purchase on were odds—born from my love of gambling. Probability theory, the Libans called it, and managed to suck most of the joy out of that too.
“98-3-8-3-6-6-81632.”
Just numbers. The Central Bank? I’d thought to find Hennan dead in a ditch or chained to a bench in some workshed . . . but not a guest of the Firenze Central Bank.
I stayed a while longer, watching the diners devour a small fortune, unable to tell how many of them were truly enjoying the over-salted delectables arranged in sparse displays across their platters.