Shadow Committee.
So my would-be employer had told a half truth. He was who he said he was, but he did not, strictly speaking, work for the government. He was a member of the opposition, the party not currently in power. Yes, he would work on bipartisan projects and initiatives with the current administration, but he was not in a position to make law, determine funding for state projects, or any of the other prerogatives of the ruling party.
A slip of the tongue? I wondered. A minor embroidery designed to impress? Or a calculated misdirection?
If it was the latter, it had been a foolish one if it could be dashed by reading a newspaper. Still, it gave me pause, and I felt a tiny disappointment that the circles in which I was moving—albeit secretly—were not quite so elevated as I had thought. It was, I knew, a stupid response, perhaps even a dangerous one, and I found myself thinking about that phrase of his about the troubling occurrences that might overwhelm us all.
Whatever was going on, it was bigger than the death of a Lani boy, or even that of a luxorite merchant.
*
THE LEADER OF THE Westside boys was called Deveril, a man in his midtwenties with a taste for slim, dusty suits; gold teeth; and a battered top hat with a crow’s feather stuck rakishly into the band. His parentage was mixed, largely Lani, but his eyes were the deep, dark brown of the Mahweni, and his hair tended to twist and curl. He wore it in chaotic braids that spilled from under his top hat—half undertaker, half pirate.
He gave me an alarming smile and waved me into his “office,” away from the prying eyes of the boys heading out for their day’s work. The Westside gang was based in a half-collapsed warehouse, and the standing of the members could be read by how close their quarters were to being structurally intact. Deveril’s office doubled as his bedroom, the only room there that had four walls and a ceiling.
He sat in a rickety chair tipped so far back, it seemed about to go over, his feet in hobnailed boots up on a stained desk scattered with paper. “You wannna know about Berrit, eh?” he said musingly. “Poor little bugger. Should never have traded him.”
“Why did you?”
“Business,” he said. “That’s how it goes sometimes.”
“Morlak requested him specifically?”
“Berrit? Nah,” he sneered, as if the question were idiotic. “To tell you the truth, I was offloading him. The boy was useless for anything but street sweeping and shoe shining, and even, then he was as like to cost me for getting bootblack all over the punters’ trousers.”
“So Morlak didn’t request him?”
“Didn’t know he existed till I put the boy in front of him.”
“Did he test him, watch him work?”
“Nah,” said Deveril, tipping his top hat forward so that the brim shaded his eyes. “Why do you want to know? He was only with Seventh Street ten minutes. You can’t have known him.”
“He was going to be my apprentice,” I said.
He pointed at me, nodding solemnly, as if this explained everything.
“Was he sad to go?” I asked.
“Not so far as you could tell,” said Deveril. “Kept himself to himself, you know? Didn’t really, as it were, socialize with the rest of the chaps. But no, didn’t seem sad.”
“How long had he been here?”
“Eight months. Maybe nine.”
“And he came straight from the Drowning?”
“That’s right. His grandmother set it up when his mother died. Tough old bird, she was. Wanted a five-shilling finder’s fee for bringing him, if you can believe that. Never even looked at him while she haggled. I gave her two, and she left without another word to him. Just walked out and never looked back.” He gave a hard, knowing smile. “No one much cared about Berrit,” he said. “Till you. What’s that all about?”
“Was anyone else involved in the Morlak trade?” I asked, ignoring his question.
“Like who?”
I shrugged. “Berrit told people he thought he was moving up.”
Deveril gave me a shrewd look. “And you reckon that, Mr. Morlak not being everyone’s cup of tea, there must have been someone else involved to make little Berrit feel good about the move. Not that I know of, no. Though he said he had friends in high places.”
“When did he say that?”
“Last time I saw him. After Morlak had agreed to the trade, Berrit came back for his few bits and bobs. I had a little sit-down with him, make sure he was all right, you know?”
“And he was?”
“Better than,” said Deveril. “Quite content, flashing around his advance wages.”
“Advance wages?” I parroted. That did not sound like Morlak at all.
“My thoughts exactly,” said Deveril. “That’s when he said it. I asked him where that had come from, and he gave me this look. Sort of sly, pleased with himself, you know? And he said, ‘Friends in high places, Mr. Deveril.’ Always very respectful was young Berrit. I appreciated that.”