24: The Art of the Haggle

The moment they left Alderham Street, Thea hailed a carriage to take her and Scarlett back to the station.

Now that she had Quickhand Pete's location, the rest would be easy — whether she tossed it to the Church to handle, or went in herself, either way it would be a simple matter.

Of course, the Duke family was a pitiable thing to be caught up in this case, and Philip's impossible bind was pitiable too. But wasn't Sullen — murdered by Quickhand Pete — just as pitiable? Weren't the citizens the Serpent Party had preyed on pitiable? Weren't the children whose very corpses had been bought and sold pitiable?

Saving the whole world was the Church's job to worry about.

"Not quite settling right with you, is it?"

In the carriage, Thea regarded Scarlett with open interest.

Scarlett's face went serious. "No — I fully agree with how you handled it! I want to learn from you, Captain!"

"Really? Honestly, even I'm not sure I agree with it."

Thea thought back to her life on Earth — if she'd ever seen a cop slug an unconvicted suspect to beat a confession out of him, she'd have stood squarely on the side of due process, no question.

Whatever the justification, what kind of skill was it to run vigilante justice in a modern society?

But unfortunately, Avengarde wasn't home, and the Steam Age was nothing like the modern world.

Even Thea had to admit it — the world you lived in shaped who you became.

Scarlett said, "It's wrong, of course — it runs against due process. If there's a way to follow procedure, then of course we should. But sometimes procedure alone can't solve the problem. It can't deliver real justice. Take Philip, just now — without methods like that, he never would have broken. Leave him be, and Quickhand Pete keeps funneling him money, and more people get hurt for it.

"That's when you have to find another way. That's not the fault of the one enforcing the law — it's a crack in the procedure itself. Clinging to the letter of it, when doing so lets justice slip away and drags more people into harm — that's the greater sin.

"So procedure has to advance. The law has to improve. If the law can no longer protect the great mass of the public, then it has to be abolished — or even overthrown. That might not be true justice. But I think... it's my justice.

"That's why I agree with what you did. And if the day ever comes when you stand against the great mass of the public — naturally, I'll stand against you too."

Thea hadn't expected that Miss Scarlett — usually about as subtle as a brick — could come out with something so profound.

Wonders never cease, Scarlett!

If Roman weren't keeping such a close eye on things, Thea was fairly sure she could talk this girl straight onto the path of the Unsheathed Blade.

The Unsheathed Blade was the path of judgment, defiance, rebellion, strife, and regicide — and from the angle of "progressive justice," it might genuinely have some transmutation relationship with the King's path.

The black-haired girl looked at the not-yet-confirmed officer beside her and said, perfectly seriously: "I have to take back what I said before, Scarlett.

"Sir Roman really does have an eye for talent. You were born to be a Legislator."

"You found Quickhand Pete's hideout in a single afternoon?"

In the office, Roman rubbed at his forehead, staring in disbelief at the girl cradling a glass bottle, gulping down soda in great noisy swallows.

When Thea had said she'd start that afternoon, he'd assumed it would take her a day or two of legwork.

Instead, she'd started past four o'clock, and by past seven she was slapping Quickhand Pete's hideout down on his desk like a winning hand!

Thea thumped her chest, brimming with confidence. "That's what they call Roman Speed! Sir, you really ought to roll it out across the whole station — anyone who can't keep up with Roman Speed gets their pay docked."

"Why is it named after me?"

"Because I was afraid someone would beat me to death for naming it after myself."

"Sorelle, you absolute—" Roman rubbed at his forehead. "So what now? You and Scarlett are just going to charge in there alone? With your abilities, it won't be easy to operate freely once you're inside, will it?"

Thea smiled sweetly. "Of course! Uncle Roman~ You wouldn't want me to die in there, would you?"

"Act normal. You're scaring me." Roman took a sip of his tea, nearly choked on it, and said, at a loss for words, "What exactly are you planning to do?"

The black-haired girl dragged a chair up to the desk, crossed her hands flat on its surface, and said, perfectly serious: "Three tiers."

"Meaning what?"

"Tier one — I get it done for you before the new year. Tier two — I get it done before the end of next month. Tier three—"

"Tier three?"

"I get it done for you today."

"Sorelle, you are a goddamn natural-born debt collector."

"I think so too." Thea drummed her fingers on the desktop, perfectly composed. "But Director — alchemy lays down the doctrine of the sacred number seven: all power demands a price. This is an equivalent exchange."

Roman gave the girl a long, searching look.

He had to admit his judgment of character hadn't been off in the slightest — this girl was a born apostle of alchemy, the type who'd never let herself take a loss on anything.

"Out with it. What do you want?"

"Give me a submachine gun, and I guarantee I'll bring your money back. Also, I'll need Scarlett's help on this — I can hardly fill my own belly and leave her hungry, can I? What I mean is—"

Thea's voice paused. She held out her right hand, slender pale fingers spreading wide, and said, "You'll need to add to my pay."

Five fingers.

Five percentage points.

Roman's original arrangement with Thea had been fifteen percent. Now she wanted another five on top.

Twenty percent — a little steep. Even Roman felt a twinge in his wallet.

But the number landed right at the edge of what he could stomach — not so high he'd refuse outright. After a moment's consideration, Roman said, with real feeling:

"You really should go open a debt-collection agency, Sorelle. Go file the firearms requisition yourself later — use my name.

"Oh, and — the Church sent over a shipment of holy wood. What were you doing over there, anyway? Don't tell me you're defecting to the enemy."

Roman took a fortifying sip of tea — he had, it had to be said, a bit of a grudge against old Bishop Marshall.

The girl smiled sweetly. "Defecting's a bit much. But the Church did make me a pretty generous offer."

Roman couldn't help swearing. "To hell with the Holy Church! Thea! — no, Madam Sorelle. I'll put you on a salary of thirty gold pounds a month."

"That's not enough. The old bishop's already offered me a letter of recommendation to St. Roland's. By the way — didn't you graduate from a literature program?"

"Classical Literature, Crown National University. Why?"

"No reason. It's just that when you start cursing, you sound exactly like a member of the House of Commons. People from law schools — like Scarlett — are so much more proper and adorable."

Roman said, approvingly, "Good eye. I can get you a letter of recommendation to Crown National University. Sorelle, you're simply not cut out for steam and machinery — I have a feeling you were born for the literature college. You'd even make a fine member of parliament."

"I can't very well attend two universities at once."

"Then how about becoming a member of parliament instead?"

Thea blinked, curious. "You actually have a channel for that?"

Roman said, "At next week's Royal Council, electoral reform is going on the agenda. By the time it's through, Nuremport will probably end up with another thirty to sixty seats."

Was this actually for real?!

Though Thea wasn't particularly interested in becoming a member of parliament, she was thoroughly impressed all the same. "Sir, your reach really does go all the way to the heavens. So — could I really go become an MP?"

"Heh. Just teasing you. Besides, the question of women's suffrage hasn't even been settled yet."

"Ah. Then I suppose I'll go throw myself at the Church's feet."

"Just tell me what you need, and quickly. First, bring back the five thousand gold pounds. Once you do, I can see about finding you the alchemy path's Sequence 8 Advancement Ritual."

"That's wonderful. Does the thirty gold pounds a month from before still stand?"

"It stands."

Roman wasn't the sort to quibble over thirty gold pounds — he'd set Thea up with a handsome salary without a second thought.

The girl said, satisfied, "And the recommendation, then? I won't have any use for it myself, but I imagine it'd fetch a decent price on the open market."

The knight felt his temples throb wildly, his mouth opening and closing again and again without a word coming out.

That was the thing about talking with Miss Sorelle — the upside was that if you treated her sincerely, she truly wouldn't treat you like an outsider. The downside was that she also wouldn't treat you, in any meaningful sense, like a person.

Roman felt, in this girl's eyes, like nothing so much as a sheep grown thick with golden fleece — something to be plucked clean at any opportunity.

The courteous, well-mannered knight held it in for a long moment, then finally got the word out:

"Out."

Down in the ground-floor lobby of the station, the clock had crept past six in the evening — by now, most of the officers had already clocked out for the day.

Even Roman, who usually worked late, had said his goodbyes to Thea and gone home.

Only Scarlett — pressed into service as Thea's personal slave — was still huffing and puffing through stacks of files, hunting down the specifics of where Quickhand Pete's lair was hidden.

—And, as it turned out, she'd actually dug up quite a bit.

The records pulled from the archive room on Quickhand Pete's hideout showed the address as a still-operating food factory's warehouse, on Coppertube Street near the docks of Great Harbor. Ownership of the warehouse traced back to the Siren's Song Potion Works .

And the factory's shareholding made for an interesting little wrinkle — the Lawrence Security Company, of all things, held forty-five percent of it.

On one side, the head of the Serpent Party. On the other, a factory belonging to Lawrence Security.

Lawrence Security was a gang that had long since gone legitimate. Its founder, Lawrence Jr., had a father — one Grew Lawrence, the very man Thea had put a bullet through the back of the skull, inside the Nightmare.

Scarlett came over carrying a cup of coffee, asking curiously, "No more work tonight, right? Are we calling it a day?"

The words might as well have been a curse — the moment they left her mouth—

Thea set the file down. "Now this is interesting. Scarlett, don't head off just yet — wait for me here at the station."

Miss Scarlett said, pitifully, "Eh! We're not done for the day?!"

"Done for the day?" Thea rolled her shoulders loose and laid a hand on Scarlett's arm. "The two of us have a night life ahead of us yet."

"N-n-night life?!"

A whole flood of scenarios — the sort where superiors took advantage of their subordinates — went flashing through Scarlett's head all at once. Panic seized her; she didn't know what to do with herself.

Surely — by any standard of reason or propriety — she shouldn't agree to something like this! But — orders had to be obeyed!

"That's right. Tonight, we finish off Quickhand Pete."

"In a little while it'll be back on the clock. Go catch some sleep here at the station for now — and remember, don't lock the door. I've got some private business to take care of; I'll come find you after. No overtime pay, I'm afraid. But I will give you a bonus." Thea took the keys from Scarlett's hand. "How does a hundred gold pounds sound?"

At the sound of that number, Scarlett was nearly struck dumb — her monthly salary was only nine gold pounds!

She'd heard that even after being made a full officer, an ordinary constable only made a pitiful eleven gold pounds — less than you could earn hauling cargo down at the docks during the busy season...

The last time she'd seen anything close to that much money was when she'd gone to pay her tuition at Crown National University.

The young trainee officer stammered, "C-Captain! Is there — something you need from me in return?"

"I need your body."

"Which — which kind of need, exactly?"

"Probationary officer, hunter-candidate Scarlett — what is the highest grade of armament the Great Harbor station is authorized to issue?!"

"Submachine guns, shotguns, and demolition charges, Captain."

"Good. Get me a submachine gun and a full load of ammunition. Then I'll need two lengths of rope, a silver knife, linen cloth, a crystal goblet, and thirty rounds of Silver Bullet ammunition for the submachine gun.

"Yes, Captain!"

"Too quiet — where's your spirit?! Bring me the holy wood the Church sent over, and light it. I'm setting up a ritual, and you're not to breathe a word of its contents to anyone."

"Yes, Captain!!"

"Excellent. Take up whatever weapon suits you best — we move on the Siren's Song Potion Works tonight! Tonight, we finish this mission!"

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