by D. J. Butler
The Lord Chamberlain tossed Indrajit a purse, as well.
“Peace comes to the Palace of Shadow and Joy,” Orem Thrush said. His voice sounded sad.
* * *
“The purse is a little heavy,” Indrajit said. He and Fix were crossing the Crown and heading down into the Spill, where they had rented an extremely spare room in a nondescript inn on a side street angling off of the Crooked Mile.
“Ah,” Fix said, “I have accidentally gone into business with a man who not only spends his money quickly, but also loathes being paid.”
“I like being paid,” Indrajit shot back. “I’m just afraid I might open this and find a Thûlian grenado inside.”
“I am happy to open the purse.”
Indrajit handed the money to Fix and stepped into the courtyard of the nameless inn. Two donkeys, an ox, and a small pack of dogs lazed on the hard-packed earth, soaking in the morning sun. Indrajit turned and climbed the baked clay steps up to the second story, where their rented room perched above the stables. The location meant that the room smelled of horse and occasionally Ylakka, but it also brought down the weekly rate.
The choice of room had been Fix’s idea. Indrajit had talked down the rent.
“This is heavy,” Fix said as Indrajit opened the door. “If it’s not a grenado, we should deposit it in the bank.”
“What for?” Indrajit asked. “Doesn’t that make it harder to spend?”
“In your case,” Fix said, “controlling spending might be desirable. Though for large sums, a good banking relationship might actually facilitate payments. We’ll be able to write drafts, for one thing.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Indrajit admitted.
“It means you can just write down on a piece of paper or parchment or a potsherd an instruction to the bank to pay someone. Then that person takes the potsherd to the bank and the bank pays her.”
Indrajit snorted. “Curse you and your writing, Fiximon. And you have made me change my mind about banks. We’re going to bury the money in a hole in the ground.”
“If the bank holds the money, they will pay us for the privilege.”
Indrajit tried to think why that would make sense, and couldn’t come up with an explanation. He snorted again. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“No, the bank pays you because, until you come take the money out again, they use it.”
“What, they spend it?”
“They lend it out to other people. And the interest those borrowers pay them lets the bank hold your money without charging you for the service.”
“Wait…they pay you interest?” Indrajit unlocked the door. “And if that guy doesn’t pay back the loan?”
“It works sort of like risk-merchantry. The bank makes lots of loans, and so even though some don’t get repaid, it still makes enough to make a profit. And the banks have agreements among themselves to help each other out in case of a cash crisis.”
“You say it works like risk-merchanting,” Indrajit said, “but the one thing I have learned for sure this weekend is that risk-merchantry doesn’t work.”
“I made money buying risk,” Fix said.
“And Frodilo Choot almost lost a fortune.”
“Well, she was the victim of fraud,” Fix pointed out. “If a blacksmith is robbed, you don’t say, See, look, blacksmithing doesn’t work.”
“I might,” Indrajit said, “if the way blacksmithing worked made it especially likely that a blacksmith would be robbed.”
“Maybe I should handle the banking,” Fix suggested.
“No banks.” Indrajit shook his head and pushed the door open.
Inside stood two beds, two chairs, a table, and a chamber pot. Grit Wopal sat at the table, third eye closed, smiling at them.
“There must be four hundred Imperials in here,” Fix murmured.
“Time to get better rooms,” Indrajit said.
“That’s it, I’m going from here to the bank. If you don’t want to have banking authority, I’ll handle all of it.”
“Gentlemen,” Grit Wopal said. “You got the money.”
“Frodilo Choot paid?” Indrajit asked.
“She paid some,” Wopal said. “The Lord Chamberlain made up the difference.”
“That’s generous,” Fix said.
“No, it isn’t,” Indrajit shot back. “He’s buying us.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Wopal said. “He’s paying you for past services. For future services, he’ll pay you again. This is what it is to be a jobber…or have you changed your mind?”
Indrajit felt deeply conflicted about how his experience with Ilsa without Peer had gone, and three days of rest and recovery hadn’t let him sort it out to his satisfaction. Ilsa and Holy-Pot Diaphernes had conspired to fake Ilsa’s death, a plan which incidentally foresaw that Indrajit himself would take the blame, and probably be killed.
But Ilsa had been a prisoner. And the man who had been her captor, Orem Thrush, had used her to garner huge wealth. With that wealth, he had bought off Indrajit’s enemies and funded Indrajit’s new partnership. Indrajit and Fix were experiencing success—but Indrajit wished it had come by some other route, and from some less morally ambiguous person.
He sighed. “I have not changed my mind, Grit Wopal.”
“Good.” Wopal grinned. “I was a little nervous you were going to punch me again.”
“Never say never.” Indrajit flopped down on the corner of his cot, leaving the second chair to Fix. “But probably not today.”
“By any chance, are you here bringing us work?” Fix asked.
“Say rather that I am giving you advance notice of work that is coming your way.”
“I don’t know,” Indrajit said. “I’m not sure I can eat advance notice.”
Wopal smiled. “You can buy a lot of food for four hundred Imperials.”
Indrajit shook his head. “Fiximon is going to give the money all to the bank.”
“Somehow, I think you will not starve.” Wopal continued as if the subject were closed. “I understand that you are aware that the Lord Chamberlain has the contract for regulating the Paper Sook.”
Indrajit’s heart fell. “What?”
“Yes,” Fix said. “We were there.”
“The Lord Chamberlain is impressed with your knowledge of the Paper Sook.”
“Thank you,” Fix said.
“No,” Indrajit said. “No. No, no, no.”
“He expects you will be involved in regulatory and policing and inspection and investigation work for incidents involving the Paper Sook.”
Fix nodded.
“Of which there are many,” Wopal said.
“Isn’t there something else?” Indrajit asked. “Latrine work? Well digging?”
Grit Wopal shrugged. “The Lord Chamberlain doesn’t generally bid on such contracts.”
“We may need more resources,” Fix suggested, a sly gleam in his eyes.
The Yifft returned the sly look. “We believe that you may be more effective operating as a pair. Lower profile. No uniform.”
Fix sucked at his teeth. “Indrajit was really hoping for a uniform.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Indrajit’s head spun.
“Formal occasions only, then,” Wopal said. “You won’t be standing guard openly at the market, you’ll be knocking on doors and asking questions.”
“Breaking into offices at night,” Fix said.
Wopal nodded. “From time to time.”
“Tailing suspicious types?” Fix asked.
“Definitely.”
The burglary and footpad work sounded more attractive than the idea of asking bankers questions. “Roughing up thieves?” Indrajit asked hopefully. “Recovering stolen funds? Protecting widows from predatory bankers?”
Wopal nodded. “You get the idea.”
“The risk-merchanting and joint-stockery and bank-drafting details are all on you,” Indrajit said to Fix.
Fix nodded.
“We’re i
n,” Indrajit said to the Yifft.
Grit Wopal left and Indrajit moved to the table. For a time, they sat in silence.
“What about your lady friend?” Indrajit asked.
“In time,” Fix said. “And your apprentice Thane?”
“I guess I’ll be looking for him in the Paper Sook.” He didn’t mean to, but Indrajit made a facial expression of distaste.
“It might surprise you how many former notaries turn to poetry,” Fix said. “Bankers, too.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me to see a risk-merchant turning to any other trade. Including Smork-herding.”
“What’s a Smork?”
“I don’t know,” Indrajit admitted. “But I understand they’re disgusting.”
Another minute passed.
“Are we going to be able to be heroes?” Fix asked. “I mean, acting like spies and burglars on behalf of Orem Thrush, a man who is clearly ruthless and self-interested…he says he wants justice, and to benefit the city, but can we trust him? Can we help innocent victims, and make a difference? Can we be men whose deeds would be recounted in your additions to the Epic?”
Indrajit took a deep breath. Outside, he heard the clop-clop of hooves, and the rattling sound of wheels running over hard earth and cobblestones. Somewhere down the street, he heard the shouted jeers and scoring of a Rûphat game, and maybe the rhythmic playing of a bang harp. He smelled roasted meat, baked bread, and the sea.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we’re going to try.”
