Marcus Miller had discovered the disadvantages of being alive.
Chief among them was porridge.
He stared into the bowl Elisabeth had left beside his bed as though it contained a personal betrayal.
"You people eat this willingly?"
"You're confusing survival with enthusiasm."
"It has no taste."
"That may be why it survived Elisabeth."
Marcus looked toward the closed cabin door.
Then lowered his voice.
"She can hear us."
"Almost certainly."
He ate another spoonful anyway.
Progress.
Three days had passed since I purchased Marcus beside a drainage channel for less than the hat currently hanging from the back of my chair. I tried not to derive philosophical lessons from that comparison. Clothing merchants had enough power already.
His condition had improved, though not enough to make him useful outside the Sierra. He could sit without assistance now. Walking from the bunk to the table left him pale and irritable. Elisabeth permitted short conversations and threatened increasingly imaginative consequences whenever I exceeded them.
So naturally I arrived with one question.
Marcus saw the notebook.
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"The notebook said it."
"Remarkably judgmental object."
I sat.
Morning light entered through the cabin window, thin and gray through Catington mist. The harbor beyond had already begun its daily argument: bells, chains, crews yelling numbers nobody else trusted.
I placed yesterday's observation record on the table.
Havel Sorn.
Three collection stops.
Thirty-seven silver.
Carrow Exchange.
White receipt.
Green stamp.
No speculation.
Only what I had seen.
Marcus read it.
"You followed him badly."
I smiled.
"Good morning to you too."
"He didn't notice you?"
"No."
"Then you followed him adequately."
"Your approval means everything."
He pushed the sheet back.
"What do you want?"
"The source of Nessa Carrow's money."
Marcus ate another spoonful.
I waited.
There are people who rush silence because they think conversation must continuously prove itself alive.
Collectors don't.
Marcus had spent years letting debtors talk themselves into worse terms.
We sat quietly.
Eventually he said:
"Rook and Vale."
I did not write.
"People?"
"House."
"Bank?"
"Factors."
Better.
"What do they factor?"
Marcus looked annoyed.
"Money."
"Technically bakers factor flour."
"They buy obligations."
There.
He pointed toward my paper.
"Carrow lends twenty. Doesn't want to wait six months to recover thirty. She takes the contract to Rook & Vale. They give her less now and collect later."
"So Carrow sells debts."
"Some."
"Whose?"
"Depends."
"Havel?"
Marcus smiled.
"No."
I smiled too.
Partially corroborated did not mean cooperative.
"How do I verify Rook & Vale?"
"Carrow paper."
"What about it?"
"Hold it under a mana lamp."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Watermark."
"Visible?"
"Only under charged light."
"What mark?"
"A rook standing on a coin."
Useful.
"And if I find it?"
"You prove one of Carrow's contracts passed through them."
"Not that they fund all of her lending."
Marcus pointed the spoon at me.
"You are learning."
"A terrible experience."
He took another bite.
Then stopped.
"One more thing."
Free information.
Suspicious.
I waited.
"Don't ask them about Carrow first."
"Why?"
"Because licensed factors record inquiries."
"Then what should I ask?"
Marcus's expression turned almost pleasant.
"Ask what they're trying to get rid of."
I looked at him.
"That sounds strangely specific."
"It is."
"What are they trying to get rid of?"
"No idea."
"You just—"
"Factors hate bad collateral."
He leaned back carefully.
"Everybody wants the loan when it's numbers. Nobody wants the warehouse when the debtor can't pay."
That was useful enough to forgive him.
Almost.
The door opened.
Elisabeth entered carrying folded bandages.
"Time."
Marcus looked offended.
"We spoke for six minutes."
"Seven."
"You count?"
"Yes."
I stood.
Marcus called after me.
"Raymond."
I turned.
"Don't buy anything you don't understand."
I smiled.
"You've misunderstood my entire economic philosophy."
Elisabeth pointed at the door.
I left.
Balthazar Quell understood factoring.
Of course he did.
He also understood trade insurance, letters of credit, bonded storage, warehouse receipts and three different ways noble families avoided admitting they were borrowing money.
It was becoming difficult to remember he was an alchemist.
We sat beneath one of Nexus's covered courtyards between classes. Rain ticked against the glass roof while students hurried past carrying books and the peculiar despair produced by morning lectures.
Balthazar read the name.
"Rook & Vale Factors."
"You know them?"
"I know of them."
"Respectable?"
He considered.
"That depends on what you mean."
"Do they murder clients?"
"Probably not as company policy."
"A promising start."
He closed his textbook.
"They're factors. Merchants, pawn houses, importers, small guilds—anyone with receivables they don't want to hold can sell claims to them."
"So if Nessa lends Havel money—"
"And then sells that debt to Rook & Vale, Rook & Vale becomes the creditor."
"Excellent."
"No."
I looked at him.
"No?"
"You are thinking that buying the paper means controlling Carrow."
I disliked people who learned me quickly.
"Perhaps."
"It doesn't."
"Explain the tragedy."
Balthazar took my pencil.
He drew three names.
HAVEL
CARROW
R&V
Then arrows.
"If Havel owes Carrow and she assigns his contract, the new holder acquires the rights specified in that contract."
"Which means—"
"Whatever the contract says."
"So I could own his debt."
"You could own a claim."
"A distinction designed by lawyers to make hunger profitable."
"A distinction that will keep you from walking into an office and telling a professional lender that you own one of their clients."
I leaned back.
"Less satisfying."
"More accurate."
He returned my pencil.
"What are you planning?"
"Research."
"You used that word before Vesper House."
"And did we not research?"
"You attempted to buy a historical conspiracy."
"That was never for sale."
Balthazar rubbed his forehead.
"Why Rook & Vale?"
"I don't know yet."
He waited.
I could lie.
Didn't.
"Nessa Carrow may borrow or sell paper through them. Marcus knew their name."
"Marcus the officially dead criminal currently hidden on your ship."
"Your phrasing lacks warmth."
"Does Xavier know?"
"Yes."
"Eulalie?"
"Not everything."
Balthazar sighed.
"I regret becoming your roommate."
"No, you don't."
"I organize my socks. Of course I do."
The bell rang.
Students stood.
Before leaving, Balthazar said:
"If you actually buy distressed paper, read the collateral schedule."
"Why?"
"That's where lenders hide their mistakes."
Then he walked away.
Two useful instructions before lunch.
Catington was becoming generous.
Rook & Vale occupied a building that looked boring enough to be rich.
Gray stone.
Three floors.
No statues.
No armed men outside.
Only two brass plaques.
ROOK & VALE FACTORS
CLAIMS — WAREHOUSE RECEIPTS — COMMERCIAL PAPER
The waiting room smelled of ink and expensive patience.
A clerk asked my age.
I gave it.
She looked at my Nexus band.
Then at me.
"Student accounts are upstairs."
"I don't want an account."
"Currency exchange?"
"No."
"Loan?"
"No."
She began to look worried.
"I want distressed claims."
That stopped her.
"You want what?"
"Things people stopped wanting."
"You mean auction inventory?"
"Perhaps."
"Commercial?"
"Yes."
"Registered business?"
"Not yet."
"No."
Simple.
I smiled.
"Is registration required to purchase every distressed warehouse claim?"
Her expression changed.
Not because I had won.
Because now she had to think.
Much more dangerous.
"One moment."
She disappeared.
I enjoyed institutions whenever their first answer encountered their own regulations.
A thin man eventually emerged.
Silver spectacles.
Dark vest.
Ink on two fingers.
"Mr…?"
"Raymond."
He waited.
I smiled.
He surrendered.
"Master Raymond. I am Corvin Rook."
Interesting.
Actual Rook.
"I was told you requested distressed commercial paper."
"I asked what you're trying to get rid of."
His eyebrows rose.
"Those are not the same thing."
"No. Mine was more honest."
He looked at my Nexus band.
"You're very young."
"Inflation has been brutal."
Nothing.
Hard audience.
He led me into a smaller office.
Shelves of files filled one wall. A scale and mana lamp occupied a side table.
No obvious luxury.
A man who profited from other people's impatience did not need paintings.
Rook sat.
"What capital are you working with?"
"Limited."
"Then you're wasting your time."
"Possibly."
He opened a drawer.
"Commercial claims involve risk."
"That is why they become inexpensive."
"They become inexpensive because intelligent people want them gone."
"An advertisement I find irresistible."
His mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
"What category?"
"Inventory-backed."
"Food?"
"Potentially."
"Metals?"
"Potentially."
"Textiles?"
"Less so."
"Why?"
"I've recently survived a cloth merchant."
He stared.
"Show me the unpleasant ones."
Rook folded his hands.
"You believe bad collateral becomes opportunity merely because it's cheap."
"No."
I leaned back.
"I believe cheap things are worth understanding before dismissing."
That earned me something.
Not respect.
Access.
He rang a bell.
A clerk brought three folders.
First: spoiled dye stock.
No.
Second: damaged copper utensils from a warehouse flood.
Potentially recyclable.
Not useful.
Third:
WAREHOUSE RECEIPT 1187-E
TWELVE SACKS — ETHÉRITE GRAIN
I stopped.
Not because I recognized an opportunity.
Because of the warning stamped across the page.
UNFIT FOR CONSUMPTION
ALCHEMICAL TOXICITY — STORAGE RESTRICTED
Rook noticed.
"Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"That look."
"Apparently I have an expressive face."
"Nobody buys Éthérite."
"Then why do you own twelve sacks?"
"We don't."
"Your folder disagrees."
"The claim is ours. The grain is stored in bonded warehouse sixteen."
"Difference noted."
He pushed the file away.
"Failed agricultural speculation. Grain grows exceptionally well in mana-rich soil. High caloric density. Holds etheric charge."
"Useful."
"No."
He tapped the red warning.
"Nielle d'Éther."
I knew the name from basic alchemy.
Not from Marduk's secrets.
From textbooks.
An etheric blight associated with the grain.
The toxin persisted through ordinary milling and brewing attempts. Exposure harmed mana regulation badly enough that most guilds treated the crop as agricultural waste.
"How bad?"
"Bad enough that the original buyer defaulted rather than attempt another processing run."
"Brewer?"
"Two."
"Both failed?"
"Yes."
"Alchemists?"
"Several, according to the inspection note."
He slid the report forward.
I read.
No recipes.
No useful processing details.
Good.
Only conclusions.
Ordinary heat treatment ineffective.
Standard cleansing magic inconsistent.
Residue remained detectable.
Product not certified safe.
The interesting line came near the end.
Commercial value assigned: negligible. Disposal/storage liability ongoing.
I read it twice.
Something worth less than nothing.
Rare.
Beautiful.
"What is the claim worth?"
Rook named a price.
I laughed.
He waited.
"You want me to pay that much for twelve sacks of poison?"
"I want you to pay for the warehouse receipt and associated claim rights."
"The grain is costing you storage."
"Yes."
"The debtor is unlikely to redeem."
"Yes."
"So you are selling me an expense."
"Yes."
"At a profit."
"I am a factor."
I liked him.
"Half."
"No."
"Your warehouse continues charging tomorrow."
"So does yours if you buy it."
"I don't have a warehouse."
"Then you have a larger problem."
Fair.
We negotiated.
Not dramatically.
No genius victory.
Rook knew the paper better than I did and had no emotional attachment to selling today.
Eventually we agreed on something far closer to his number than mine.
I hated that.
Useful experience.
But before I paid, I remembered Balthazar.
"Collateral schedule."
Rook paused.
Then smiled properly for the first time.
"Someone educated you."
"I find it embarrassing."
He handed it over.
The grain was not the only collateral.
There were three minor claims attached to the failed importing account.
One cracked fermentation vessel.
Two sets of sealed transport barrels.
And—
A receivable assigned by:
CARROW EXCHANGE
My fingers stopped.
There it was.
Not Havel's name.
Not enough.
But Nessa's business.
Amount small.
Underlying debtor redacted on this summary.
Status:
PAST DUE — SERVICING RETAINED BY CARROW EXCHANGE
Rook watched me.
"You're less interested in grain now."
"On the contrary."
"What do you know about Carrow?"
"Nothing I can prove."
"Good answer."
"Why is her receivable bundled with this account?"
"It isn't."
I looked up.
"The schedule—"
"Read the column."
I did.
Cross-collateral assignment.
Different obligation.
Same borrower?
No.
Same guarantor.
A code.
L-47.
"Who is L-47?"
"Protected commercial identity."
"Can the purchaser learn it?"
"If you purchase the claim rights attached to that schedule, you obtain disclosures required for servicing."
There.
Door.
Not all of Nessa's capital.
One narrow relationship.
Exactly enough.
"How much for the bundle?"
He named another number.
Higher.
I looked at the toxic grain again.
Twelve sacks.
Storage fees.
A small Carrow receivable.
Several useless barrels.
A cracked vessel.
It was not a treasure chest.
It was financial rubbish tied together with legal string.
Which was why nobody had bothered separating it.
I paid.
It hurt.
That mattered.
Rook stamped the transfer.
"Congratulations."
"You sound unconvinced."
"I've transferred you twelve sacks of toxic grain, damaged equipment and a delinquent claim."
"Your sales technique is improving."
He slid a document toward me.
"Warehouse sixteen. You have seven days before the next storage charge."
"Generous."
"And don't consume the grain."
I looked offended.
"I attend Nexus."
"That is why I repeated myself."
Cruel.
I did not open the sacks.
This deserves recognition.
I transported one sealed sampling vial supplied by the bonded warehouse and left the bulk untouched.
Growth.
Elisabeth would still complain.
She did.
"You bought poison."
"It came with debt."
"That does not improve the sentence."
We stood in the Sierra's work cabin.
The vial rested under glass.
Tiny pale grains filled half of it, each carrying faint silver veins that caught mana-light.
Beautiful.
Which is one of nature's less charming habits.
Elisabeth read the inspection certificate.
"Nielle d'Éther."
"Yes."
"You know what that does."
"I know the textbook."
"Then why is it here?"
"Because twelve sacks cost almost nothing."
"They cost money."
"Almost nothing emotionally."
She stared.
I amended:
"And because there's something strange about the failure history."
"What?"
I pointed to the inspection notes.
"Several people attempted purification."
"Yes."
"All treated the toxin as contamination."
"It is contamination."
"Maybe."
She folded her arms.
"Raymond."
I looked through the glass.
The grain's etheric veins pulsed faintly when exposed to mana-light.
The toxic residue wasn't sitting on the surface.
It appeared integrated into the grain's own mana structure.
Removing it after milling might be equivalent to removing salt from soup one spoon at a time.
Wrong stage.
Wrong question.
Chessmaster began mapping transformations.
Germination.
Mana uptake.
Structural change.
No answer.
Just possibilities.
"Don't," Elisabeth said.
"Don't what?"
"Make that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you decide centuries of failed processing simply lacked you."
That hurt because it was accurate.
"I have made no such conclusion."
"Good."
"I merely suspect they may have been solving the wrong phase."
She sighed.
"That is a conclusion with better clothing."
"I'm learning from Catington."
She took the vial.
Locked it inside the alchemical cabinet.
"Balthazar looks at it before you touch anything."
"Reasonable."
"And no tasting."
I stared.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?"
She raised one eyebrow.
"Fine."
No tasting.
The financial empire would have to survive the afternoon.
The papers from Rook & Vale proved more immediately useful.
The acquired Carrow receivable did not identify Havel.
Good.
No miraculous connection.
It identified L-47 after transfer disclosure.
Legal name:
Luther Hane.
Occupation:
licensed warehousing contractor.
Address:
Lower East Freight Ward.
Creditor of record:
Carrow Exchange.
Assigned upstream through a guarantor agreement.
Guarantor—
Nessa Carrow herself.
Interesting.
Not proof she owned La Baronna.
Not proof Luther belonged to it.
Just a debt where Nessa had personally guaranteed repayment.
Amount modest.
But overdue.
Why guarantee him?
I wrote nothing speculative.
Then checked the collateral description.
Storage rights — Lower East, Units 4–6.
Warehouses.
Marcus had told me not to focus on Havel.
Carrow was the useful debt.
Perhaps he meant her own obligations.
Or perhaps he meant something else.
I took the documents to Marcus.
He was standing when I entered.
Badly.
One hand on the table.
Elisabeth nowhere in sight.
"Sit."
He glared.
"You sound like her."
"Terrifying accusation."
He lowered himself into the chair.
Slowly.
I put the disclosure sheet down.
Marcus read the name.
Then stopped.
"Where did you get this?"
"I bought garbage."
"What?"
"Financial garbage."
He read again.
"Luther Hane."
"You know him?"
"Yes."
Good.
"Role?"
Marcus looked at me.
"Price."
I smiled.
Healthy.
"What do you want?"
"The same thing."
Protection for the unnamed person.
Still unresolved.
"No."
"Then you get less."
"Fine."
I pointed at Luther.
"Is he La Baronna?"
Marcus considered.
"He stores things for them."
"That is not the same question."
"No."
Good.
"Member?"
"Not formally."
"Confirmed from your experience?"
"As far as I knew."
"Why would Nessa guarantee his debt?"
Marcus looked at the paper.
Then laughed quietly.
It turned into a cough.
He waited.
"This is better than Havel."
"Explain."
"Luther holds overflow."
"What overflow?"
"Whatever shouldn't be under Baronna's own roof when inspectors arrive."
Contraband.
Potentially.
Still his claim.
"Do you know Units Four through Six?"
"Yes."
"What is there?"
"No."
"Marcus."
"I knew the function, not today's inventory."
Good.
No impossible knowledge while wounded and isolated.
I sat opposite him.
"Then why is Nessa personally guaranteeing him?"
"She used to own the lease."
Interesting.
"Used to?"
"Transferred it."
"To Luther?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Last year."
"Why?"
Marcus smiled.
"Now you're asking the right question."
"And your price?"
"One person."
Persistent.
"I won't promise blind protection."
"Then we're done."
I studied him.
Not as a piece.
As a man.
Someone mattered enough that he had accepted execution without exposing them.
Maybe innocent.
Maybe another criminal.
Maybe the person he searched for in the crowd.
I couldn't promise safety without knowing.
But I could change the transaction.
"One concession."
Marcus waited.
"You don't give me the name yet."
His expression changed.
"In return?"
"You tell me what danger you're protecting them from. No identity. No location."
"And then?"
"I decide whether I can offer terms."
Marcus looked down.
Long silence.
The harbor creaked outside.
Finally:
"La Baronna thinks they have something that belonged to me."
"What?"
"A book."
My attention sharpened.
Not Devil's Deceptions.
Don't invent connection.
"What kind?"
"My outside ledger."
There.
"You gave it to them?"
"Yes."
"The person you searched for during the execution."
Marcus went still.
Too fast.
I stopped.
"Speculation."
He looked at me.
"I didn't say yes."
"Noted."
I crossed the thought mentally back into PROBABLE, not confirmed.
Marcus watched.
Then said:
"If Baronna finds the ledger, whoever has it dies."
Now we had terms beginning to exist.
"And what is inside?"
"Collections I changed."
"Names you sold?"
"No."
"Outside loans?"
"Yes."
"Creditors?"
"Yes."
"Captains?"
A pause.
"Yes."
There it was.
A potentially meaningful record.
Not the full Baronna books.
Marcus's private subset.
"Luther Hane?"
Marcus looked at the disclosure.
"Yes."
I exhaled.
The connection finally gained another independent thread—but only from Marcus.
Still needed verification.
"What does Luther have to do with Carrow?"
"He stores collateral."
"For her?"
"For whoever pays."
"And Baronna?"
"Yes."
"So those Lower East units may contain goods tied to Carrow's loans and Baronna logistics."
"May."
He emphasized it.
I smiled.
"Excellent."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Marcus rubbed his face.
"Don't go there tonight."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because Luther isn't Havel."
"Meaning?"
"Havel collects money."
Marcus's expression hardened.
"Luther notices doors."
Good.
We would not enter tonight.
Progress continued to be terribly boring.
Balthazar arrived at the Sierra just after sunset.
Elisabeth had apparently summoned him about the Éthérite.
He held the sampling vial up to the mana lamp.
The silver veins brightened.
His expression became interested.
Then concerned.
Then interested again.
A proper alchemist.
"Where did you get this?"
"Debt."
He looked at me.
"I am going to regret asking."
"Yes."
He rotated the vial.
"Nielle concentration is high."
"Can it be purified?"
"Of course."
Elisabeth looked at him.
I looked at him.
Balthazar added:
"Probably not into something edible."
Better.
"How would you—"
"No."
I frowned.
"You don't even know the question."
"I know your face."
Another convert to the persecution.
He placed the vial down.
"The toxin isn't merely coating the grain. It's integrated with its etheric metabolism."
"That was my impression."
"Which means ordinary post-harvest cleansing is the wrong stage."
Elisabeth looked at me.
I smiled.
She hated that.
Balthazar continued.
"If there is a safe process—and I said if—it would probably have to alter the grain during transformation rather than wash the toxin out afterward."
Germination.
Exactly where my thinking had gone.
Not a recipe.
A research direction.
Earned.
"What happens if it works?" Elisabeth asked.
Balthazar shrugged.
"You get grain with unusually high stored mana and nutritional density."
"And if it fails?"
He looked at the red warning label.
"You keep poison."
Good.
That distinction would remain sacred.
I took out the Blacklist.
New entry.
ETHÉRITE GRAIN
Status:
TOXIC COMMODITY — COMMERCIAL VALUE CURRENTLY NEGLIGIBLE
Known:
— abundant growth in mana-rich soil.
— stores significant etheric energy.
— contains Nielle d'Éther.
— conventional processing historically unsuccessful.
— current lot acquired through distressed warehouse paper.
Unknown:
— whether safe detoxification is possible.
— whether useful properties survive detoxification.
— processing cost.
— scalability.
— market value if rendered safe.
I stopped.
Did not write beer.
Not yet.
Dreams are dangerous when entered as assets before experiments.
Balthazar read over my shoulder.
"You're thinking of commercializing it."
"If it works."
"You don't know that it works."
"Which is why that sentence began with 'if.'"
Elisabeth tapped the ledger.
"You are not testing it on yourself."
"No."
Both of them stared.
I sighed.
"Not first."
"Raymond."
"Fine. Not unless we have validated safety through appropriate alchemical testing."
Balthazar looked surprised.
"That was almost responsible."
"I feel ill."
Elisabeth took the vial away.
Late that night, I arranged the day's purchases on the cabin table.
Not physically.
On paper.
One distressed bundle.
Inside it:
twelve sacks of toxic grain.
damaged brewing equipment.
transport barrels.
a Carrow-linked receivable.
a personal guarantee.
a warehouse contractor.
three storage units tied—possibly—to criminal overflow.
One purchase.
Several relationships.
None of them yet equivalent.
That distinction mattered.
I added:
ROOK & VALE FACTORS
Confirmed: licensed factor. held distressed bundle. sold claim to Raymond. possessed Carrow-related assigned receivable.
Not confirmed: systematic financier of Carrow Exchange. knowledge of Baronna-related activity.
Then:
NESSA CARROW
Confirmed: Carrow Exchange. Havel entered premises and exited with debt-reduction receipt. personally guaranteed Luther Hane obligation found in acquired paperwork.
Probable: uses factoring/assignment structures.
Not confirmed: Baronna membership. knowledge of Luther's illicit storage activity. source of all lending capital.
Then Marcus.
Still:
SOURCE — PARTIALLY CORROBORATED.
Not upgraded.
Not yet.
His statement about Luther would need independent evidence.
I looked at the line from yesterday.
Do not buy the debt yet. Find the source of the money first.
We had not found all of it.
But I had purchased something adjacent.
A tiny claim.
A contractual thread.
Enough to look without shouting.
That was the difference between attacking an organization and changing the conditions around it.
My eyes drifted toward the locked alchemical cabinet.
Éthérite.
Worthless poison.
Twelve sacks nobody wanted.
Storage liability.
If Balthazar was wrong, I had purchased expensive compost.
If he was right about the transformation stage but the toxin could not be safely separated, same result.
If Elisabeth discovered the useful properties collapsed with the toxin—
Again, garbage.
Three likely failures.
One strange possibility.
I smiled.
Rex opened one eye from beside the door.
"Don't judge me."
He closed it again.
Wise animal.
In another life, men had made fortunes from oil found under useless land, shipping routes through forgotten ports, patents everyone mocked before the first factory opened.
People imagine wealth begins when something becomes valuable.
Usually not.
It begins a moment earlier—
when nearly everyone agrees it is worthless.
I closed the ledger.
Tomorrow I would visit Luther Hane.
Not break into his warehouse.
Not threaten him.
Not even mention La Baronna.
I owned a claim linked to his storage rights.
That gave me something far more civilized than a knife.
A reason to knock.
And in the hold of a bonded warehouse, twelve sacks of poisonous grain were quietly accumulating storage fees.
For the moment, they were a mistake.
The city had priced them accordingly.
I had learned enough about Catington to know that prices and value were rarely the same thing.
Sometimes there was a second price.
Sometimes there was a second owner.
And sometimes—
if fortune was feeling particularly irresponsible—
there was a second use.