Mondragon grimaced, and shoved his chair back a bit. "Raj, I'd be very much surprised if there wasn't 'something funny' going on there. Half this damned town smuggles—"
"It isn't that—I mean, they tell us what not to see, if you catch my meaning." Raj bit his lip as he struggled to communicate what he had discovered in a way that Mondragon would understand. "This is something else; it's different. I'd swear on my life it's something that the Gallandrys don't know is going on. It's something I sort of ran into in the books. I don't think anybody else would, 'cause nobody else remembers things like I do."
Now Tom looked serious, and very much interested. He quirked one finger at Raj. "Come over here and sit where I can see you—"
Raj obeyed, pulling out the chair next to Mondragon's and plopping down into it. Mondragon shoved his food aside and clasped his hands quietly on the table before him. Raj imitated his pose without really thinking about it.
Mondragon took a deep breath. "I've got good cause to know about that memory of yours; I don't know that I've ever seen that play tricks. So what is it that you've uncovered?"
"About twice a month," Raj replied, picking his words with care, "There's about three or four fewer tax stamp receipts than there are items on the bill of lading inventory, which is when things go into the warehouse. But there's exactly the same number as on the warehousing inventory, when things go out. There's no discrepancy in the bill of lading and what's been paid for, and no calls for reimbursement from clients, so there's no reason for Gallandry to go back-checking the books; so far as they figure, they've been paid in full, everything's okay. The way things go is this—the bill of lading gets checked off at the warehouse door when the ship gets unloaded. That's the first time they make a count. Then the priest in charge of duty fees stamps each thing when it comes back out again; that's the second time. That way nobody can swipe stuff from the warehouse with the tax stamp on it an' resell it."
"Huh." Mondragon looked very thoughtful. "So— somebody is bringing something in, paying Gallandry for it, then 'losing' it before it gets duty paid on it?"
Raj nodded. "That's what it looks like to me, m'ser."
"Do you know who—or even what?"
Raj nodded again. "Spices. About three, four little spice casks at a time. I dunno if you know, but the duty on spice to the College is a silverbit per ounce, and the same for the Governor. Total two silverbits per ounce, and each one of those little casks holds five pounds."
Mondragon chewed his lip. "Adds up to a good sum, doesn't it?" he said after a pause.
Raj's head bobbed. "Enough to make a real difference to somebody, I'd think."
Tom brooded for a bit. "You've been doing your damnedest to act and think like a responsible adult, lately," he said, and Raj flushed painfully, lowering his eyes to his clasped hands. "I'm minded to see if you can take an adult task. It just might be worth what you cost me."
Raj looked up at him in a flare of sudden hope.
Tom smiled sourly. "You'll be fishing in dangerous waters, Raj, I want you to know that. This might be something one of the younger Gallandrys is running without the knowledge of the Family—it's certainly something worth enough money that at least one of the parties involved is going to be willing to kill to protect it. You're going to have to be very, very cautious, and very, very smart."
"You want me to find out who's involved," Raj stated. "And you figure I've gotten enough sense beat into me to take the risk and come out on top. If I keep my head."
Tom nodded, and coughed a little self-consciously. "And you know why. I sell information, and I don't much care who I sell it to, or how many times I sell it. If you take care, you should be all right, but this probably will cost you your job, no matter what—"
Raj shrugged. "It was you got me the job in the first place," he pointed out. "Reckon I can scrounge another one somewhere. Maybe Jones can have a word with m'ser Moghi; maybe m'ser Moghi could use a pencil pusher, or knows who could—"
"Oh no, boy—" Mondragon got a real, unfeigned smile on his face. "No, you won't have to go hunting up another job; you're going to have enough to worry about, come summer. I had a word with m'sera Kamat this afternoon—"
Raj blushed very hotly, knowing quite well that the "word" was likely pillow-talk.
"-—and it seems she's talked her formidable young brother into giving you full Kamat sponsorship into the College. Think you can handle that assignment, m'ser Almost-A-Doctor Tai?"
Raj's jaw dropped, and he stared at Mondragon like a brain-sick fool. Never, never in all his wildest dreams, had he ever thought for a moment that Marina Kamat would follow through on her half-promise once he'd revealed how he'd deceived her with his poetry, poems she'd thought came from Tom Mondragon.
"Now I want you to listen to me, Rigel Takahashi," Mondragon continued, staring so hard into Raj's eyes that it felt like he was trying to inscribe his words on Raj's brain directly. "This is good sense, good advice I'm going to give you. Put your dreams and idealism in your pocket for a minute and listen to me just as carefully as you can."
"Yes, m'ser," Raj said, dazed.
"Kamat," Tom said with force, "is going to expect you to become their House physician; that's the price you will personally be paying for their gift. You're going to become fairly well-off; you'll have to be, you'll be an associate of the Family. Now I know you want to help out Jones' friends; that's very nice, it's very admirable—but you aren't going to be able to help the poor by being poor yourself. Be smart; take what comes your way and use it. Once in the Family power structure you will be in a position to get that medical help to the canalers. Kamat seems to have a certain sense of social responsibility." His tone was wry; not quite cynical. "You can play on that if you play their game by their rules. And that's the way to get what you want in this world. So don't blow the chance you've been given; it's been my experience that you don't often get more than one."
Raj got his jaw back in place, swallowed, nodded. "You're right, m'ser, I know you're right. The world's like that. And you've been—real good to me an' Denny. Better than you had any reason to, and I can't say as I've done much to deserve it. I just wish—" He swallowed again. "—I just wish I could do something to give you a shot at what you've always wanted. You wouldn't screw it up."
Mondragon turned eyes on him that reflected both wonder and pain. "I—wouldn't count on that, Raj," he whispered. "Even the people who think they know what the world is all about can be wrong."
That strange look lasted only a second—then Mondragon was back to his old self.
"One more thing," he continued, pulling his interrupted dinner back toward him, and toying with the bread. "You've been granted two ways to prove you've learned your lessons and to pay me back for the trouble you caused. One—to find out what's going on at Gallandry. Two—to become my channel into "Kamat and the College, to be my eyes and ears and keep me informed. You know what kind of information I'm likely to find interesting. So—"
"Don't blow it," Raj completed for him, still a little bemused by the turn in his fortunes.
Tom actually chuckled. "Right," he said, resuming his meal.
"M'ser Tom, —would it be all right if I wrote my grandfather and told him about this, do you think?" Raj asked hesitantly, as he shoved the chair away from the table and prepared to leave.
Mondragon considered the possible ramifications for a moment; Raj could almost see the thoughts behind the eyes. "I can't see where it could do any harm," he finally replied. "It might ease his mind about you. Go ahead."
Raj hesitated in the doorway. "Thank you, m'ser," he said shyly, feeling that he was likely to be glowing with gratitude and happiness.
"For what?" Tom asked, weary, but amused. "Oh, go on, Raj, —if you're not hungry, go read, or go to bed. Get out of here—you keep reminding me of how old and corrupt I am."
Raj bobbed his head awkwardly and scooted back to the room he shared with Denny. The kid wasn't back from his mysterious errand with Jones
—but Raj wasn't overly worried about him. This wasn't the first time he'd been out on a night-run with Jones. It was no doubt dangerous—but less so than roof-walking with his old mentor Rat, the singer-thief. And possibly even less dangerous than what Raj was going to attempt.
So Raj undressed and climbed into bed—and for the first time in months, the dreams he dreamed were bright.
He thought out a plan of action the next morning on the way to work, grateful beyond words for the presence of Wolfling on his backtrail so that he was able to spare a bit of his mind to make plans. The very first thing to do was to try to find out if this was an overall scam, or limited to one particular ship—which was what he thought likeliest, given the frequency.
He waved to Del on the canal below, who waved back; the man was much friendlier now that Raj was accepting "payment" for his doctoring. There was, thank God, less of that, now that the killing season of cold was over. Raj hadn't needed his coat for weeks; the only bad part about the weather warming was that the canals were beginning to smell. Then would come summer; plague time. And summer would tell whether or not the Janist promise of "no plague this year" would come true.
Well—that was to come; now was for bare feet on the walkways, and heads bared to the spring breeze, and a general feeling of cheer all around that another winter had been lived through. And the laxness that came with spring-born laziness just might make it possible for Raj to find out his information undetected.
He was early to work, scooting in through the peeling wooden doorway literally as soon as Ned Gallandry unlocked it. The early morning sun wasn't high enough to penetrate into the lower levels yet, so he had to trot 'round the dusty, cluttered outer office, lighting all the clerks' lamps. That was usually Ned's job—but the Gallandry cousin didn't look at all displeased at the junior clerk's enthusiasm. He gave Raj an approving nod and left the outer office, to take his position at the runner's desk in the next office over.
Raj had a reason for being so early; he was early enough to make an undisturbed, though hasty, check through the import lists by ship, and discover that only one, the motorbarge Wayfarer, ever carried the spice shipments that had the discrepancies. And only one Captain, Nabeel Brit, had been at her helm since the discrepancies started.
This was quickly and quietly done. By the time anyone else came in, Raj was at his desk, copying the inventories from the Star of Suvajen into the appropriate books. One or two of his fellow clerks jibed at him for working so hard; Raj looked up from his copying and grinned slightly. "What do you expect," he countered, "when a feller is so ugly no girl'l look at him? A feller's gotta do something to take his mind off—what he ain't getting."
Mustafa Jamil rolled his dark eyes expressively as he settled onto his tall stool behind his slanted desk. "Lord and Ancestors, Raj, —if you ain't gettin' nothin' it's 'cause you ain't lookin'! Half them canaler girls is makin' big eyes at you behind your back—an' the only reason the rest of 'em ain't is 'cause their daddies would tan their backsides for 'em if they did." Mustafa snorted, scratching his curly head. "Ugly! Hell, I wish I was as 'ugly' as you! Maybe Rosita wouldn't be givin' me such a hard time!"
Raj blushed and ducked his head. He knew why the canaler girls were giving him the eye—not because he was desirable; because he was notorious. The whole of the Trade had been alerted when he'd gone "missing" —and the whole of the Trade knew the outcome. He was just grateful that his fellow workers didn't; they were landers, and canalers didn't spill canal gossip to landers. And it seemed Raj was semi-adopted now— because the Trade hadn't told the Land about what a fool he'd been.
And for all of that, he still hadn't seen The Girl since that awful day—he'd looked, but he'd not seen her once. His only possible aid, Jones, had been unable—or unwilling—to identify her. Raj sighed, recollecting the peculiar jolting his heart had taken when he'd seen her—she'd shaken Marina Kamat clean out of his head, and herself in.
Well, he couldn't think about her now; he had a ticklish job ahead of him.
Mustafa chuckled at Raj's blush, not knowing what had caused it; he was about to toss another jibe in his direction when Theta Gallandry stalked through the outer office on the way to his inner sanctum, and all four clerkly heads bent quickly over their assignments.
For the next bit of information Raj had to wait until the appropriate book came into his hands legitimately— though he'd picked taking on the lengthy Pride of Suvajen inventory with the notion of getting at that book in mind. This seagoing ship had sprung a leak in one of the smaller holds and had as a consequence sustained a bit of spoilage to chalk off on the loss sheets. And that was the book Raj wanted in his hands; the "Spoilage, Refund and Salvage" book— because if he was a captain covering tracks, that's where he'd have hidden those little spice casks.
And sure enough—there they were; and no one else ever seemed to have quite as much spoilage in such a specific area as Nabeel Brit.
It looked legit as hell, all properly logged, and with no loss on the Gallandry ledgers. Only one thing that the captain had forgotten; the casks themselves.
The miniature barrels that spices and teas were shipped in were unlike any other such containers in that they were not tarred to make them waterproof. Tar ruined the delicate flavor of the spices. They were very carefully waxed instead; calked with hemp and coated with beeswax, inside and out.
This made them very valuable, no matter that they were so small. Cooks liked them to hold flour and sugar and salt; hightowners had a fad of using them to grow flowers in, on their balconies. For that matter—a good many used the casks, with the wax coating burnished into their wood until the wood glowed, as waste-baskets, workbaskets, and for a dozen other semiorna-mental purposes.
So even if the spice inside had somehow spoiled, through leakage, or rot, or insect contamination, the cask had a resale value. Yet none of those casks from the Wayfarer inventory ever appeared on the "Salvage" side of the blotter.
And no one seemed to be interested in claiming back part of the value from the company that imported the spice for them. And that was very odd indeed.
And it was in the "Spoilage, Refund and Salvage" book that Raj found out who had ordered and paid for the "spoiled" spices—and who had apparently been so careless or generous as to absorb the entire loss.
Deems Spicery on Deems Isle.
The next day and the next Raj kept strictly to legitimate business, waiting for an opportunity for him to get at the packets of tax-stamps.
The Merovingen tax-stamps, placed on an article that had had its duty paid in full, were distributed by a small army of College priests. The stamps themselves were green paper seals, signed by the officiating priest, and each was preprinted with a unique number. They were perforated to tear into two parts, each half bearing the same number. The first part was gummed, meant to be glued across the opening of the article; the second was torn off and returned after counting at the College to the appropriate importer as evidence that he had paid the tax duties to College and Governor. The stamps came in from the College in packets and were kept in the cubbyholes of the tax desk, one hole for each day of the month, until the end of the month when some luckless clerk got to check them against the warehousing inventory and file them away. Raj was too junior to be entrusted with such a task—but Mustafa wasn't.
Sure enough, at month's end Mustafa got stuck with the job. And Mustafa never had lunch at his desk. Raj waited until lunchtime, when Mustafa had gone off to lunch with Rosita and the office was deserted, to make his move.
He slid over to Mustafa's desk, counted the little packets, and purloined the one representing the twelfth of the month, the day the spice shipments from the Wayfarer had been collected by the Deems representative. He thumbed through the little slips as quickly as he could, not daring to take the packet out of the office, hovering over in a corner next to the filthy glass window where the light was best. Finally he came to the Deems slips, and got the name of the priest in charge puzzled out.
/> Father Jermaine Harmody.
He burned the name into his memory, and returned the slips to Mustafa's desk in the nick of time, heading out the door to his own lunch just as Ned Gallandry headed in, bound for Theta's office with a package.
Denny was in as cheerful a mood as he'd ever been in his life. Jones was so pleased with the way he'd been handling himself that she had decided to take him into her further confidence.
And she was damned desperate.
She'd flagged him down with the little signal they'd worked out that meant she needed to talk to him somewhere where they weren't likely to be observed. He finished his current run in double time, then, when there didn't seem to be anybody about, ducked under Nayab Bridge along the ledge at water level.
And there was Jones, holding her skip steady against the pull of the canal current.
"Ker-whick-a," Denny chirped, seeing the flash of her eyes as she looked in his direction. He skipped over to the side of the boat, keeping his balance on the ledge with careless ease. "Whatcha need, Jones?"
"I got a problem," she said in a low, strained voice. "Moghi sent me t' pick up a payment fer 'im—only after I'd got it, somethin' spooked th' blacklegs. They're all over the damned water an' they're stoppin' skips—"
"An' if they find you with a bundle of cash—" Denny didn't have to finish the sentence. "Huh. Tom'd have a helluva time prying' you outa the Signeury. Pass it over, Jones. I gotta go by Ventani anyhow."
"If there's one penny missin'—"
Denny pouted, hurt. "C'mon, Jones, Gallandry trusts me with cash!"
"I ain't as stupid as Gallandry," Jones replied, but with no real force. "Here."
She pulled a flat packet out of her shirt, a packet that chinked and weighed surprisingly heavy. Denny raised a surprised eyebrow. Silver at the least—maybe gold. Something had gone amiss if Moghi had sent Jones out to make a pickup of this much coin in broad daylight.
He slipped the package inside his own shirt. "Keep headin' up th' canal," he suggested. "If it's you they're lookin' fer, an' lookin' fer you t' head fer Moghi's, that oughta throw 'em off th' scent."