The girl crumpled but recovered quickly. “I’ll wash my hands,” she said, knowing that completing this tedious duty would get her to the baby faster.
Rahvey watched her go and the crack reopened, though this time the joy was mixed with sadness and regret, so that for a moment, and for the first time in many years, I almost threw my arms around her. She was afraid of Florihn and did not know how to be anything other than a Lani of the Drowning, but giving up the child was, I realized with shock, tearing her quietly apart.
She caught me looking and fought to get her face under control. When she spoke, it was to change the subject, and her voice had to shrug off a tremor. “You seem … different,” she said. “These last two days. Worried, but more confident. Why? What kind of work are you doing?” When I didn’t answer right away, she considered the coin and said, “How can you afford to give me this?”
“Let’s just say I have friends in high places,” I said.
I was almost out of the Drowning when it struck me that Berrit had used the exact same phrase mere hours before he died.
CHAPTER
15
I BOUGHT A PAPER from the Mahweni girl because I could, and then made my way to Crommerty Street, where the luxorite shops had not yet opened for the day. There was no sign of Billy, but that didn’t matter. I walked past Ansveld’s place twice, moving quickly, as if intent on getting somewhere else, not pausing to look into the barred windows. I noted the position of number 23, the Macinnes place, then crossed the street, took a left at the corner of Sufferance Avenue, and looked for a way down the backs of the shops.
The Macinnes store was across the street from Ansveld’s. If a Lani boy had visited the dead trader, there was a good chance someone inside would have seen him.
The buildings formed an imposing terrace, all three-story structures of rich sandstone. They had gated backyards—locked—with outhouses and storage sheds, all surrounded by high walls topped with wrought iron spikes, fair deterrents against casual thieving but no obstacle to serious burglars.
Or steeplejacks.
I chose a point in the shade of a sisal currant tree, startling a pink roller from its perch, and climbed up, over, and in.
One flight of stone steps went up to the back door of the shop and main residence while another led down to the servants’ quarters below ground level. There was a hand pump and trough beside the outhouse, but neither looked well used.
Indoor plumbing, then.
That meant I couldn’t count on Billy’s lady friend coming outside anytime soon. I tried to remember what he had told me about her and realized I had forgotten the woman’s name. She was a scullery maid, the lowest of the household servants, and would be responsible for unskilled chores: fetching and carrying, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, boiling water, disposing of kitchen refuse. That would have to be my way in. I steeled myself to talk, even to act, then descended the steps and rapped on the door.
It was opened by a harried-looking white woman in her forties, too old and plump to be Billy the pickpocket’s belle.
“Yes?” she said, looking past me to the locked gate.
“I was wondering if I could speak to whoever is responsible for your trash collection,” I said.
“That would be the butler, but he doesn’t talk to tradespeople without an appointment,” said the woman. She had opened the door only wide enough to squeeze her florid face through it, and she was already starting to close it again.
“Actually, I would prefer to speak to the person who actually handles the refuse,” I said, improvising. “We have a new line of pails and crates specifically for trash that are lighter and stronger than what most people have access to.”
“I don’t think we’re interested,” said the woman I took to be the housekeeper.
“Enables the carrying of twice as much in considerably fewer trips,” I pressed, wondering where this newfound confidence came from. “Our clients say the kitchen operates far more efficiently for their use.”
The closing door hesitated. “Wait here,” said the woman.
The door closed. Somewhere inside, pots clanged. I heard voices, distant and muffled, one of them low and masculine. There was another silence, and then the door flew open.
It wasn’t the housekeeper or the scullery maid. It was a man in formal black and white, and his face was flushed with an anger that made his eyes flash. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.
“The gate was unlocked,” I lied, taking a step backwards.
“No, it wasn’t,” he shot back. “Reporters!”
“Not a reporter, sir,” I said, fighting the urge to run, all my usual diffidence returning like a blanket thrown over my head. He was a big man, and for all his civilized attire, he looked capable of taking a swing at me. “I’m a consultant working with a governmental office—”
“Ha!” he sneered. “Badge? Warrant?”