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Quintus found the laundry by asking around in the Septentrius district until he found someone who knew her. No one remembered her at the Black Eagle—the place she’d given as her address when she applied for the loan. But a girl at the dress shop next door remembered selling ribbons to a “Lady Dagra,” and the bills had been sent to a new address, at a much nastier, cheaper inn called the Prefectus Arcus, closer to the wharves. From there, he had little trouble finding where she worked.
He took his clothes to a cheap laundry in this neighborhood occasionally, whenever he was too lazy to wash them himself. But he’d never been inside before, past the smooth, polished counter and into the back room, where brass kettles and boilers whistled and groaned, and steam hung in the air, and the constant chatter of the workers swelled and faded away under the hiss of the hot iron presses, only to break out again in frantic, exhausted laughter.
The manager, a big, hulking Balakian man, called one of the faceless girls over. Only when she rolled up her long sleeves and pulled off her cap and linen facemask, did Quintus recognize the beautiful Lady Dagra.
“Mr. Quintus Verrus,” she said, wiping the sweat from her face. “What a surprise. What are you doing here?”
Quintus shooed the manager away; he had told the man he had come to see Lady Dagra on “a matter of business with the Procellus Bank,” which had impressed the fellow a good deal.
The Myrcian widow led Quintus out through the heavy, shuttered doors, into the clearer air by the cold water stations. “It’s much quieter in here,” she said. “So, what did you need me for?” Her eyes lit up. “Has the bank reconsidered my loan?”
He wished he could have said “yes,” and only then did he realize that his presence was bound to raise her hopes unfairly. “No, I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
Her face fell, and she looked with disgust at her red, chafed hands.
“Oh. I see,” she murmured.
“I wanted to see how you were doing,” he said.
She crossed her arms and let out an exasperated sigh. “I am precisely as you see me, Mr. Quintus Verrus. I am stuck doing a dreadful job so my children can eat.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. He wished now that he had gone straight to work and hadn’t made this detour.
At last he stammered out, “I’m very sorry. I...I wanted you to know that...um, I will try to get the bank to reconsider.”
Then he left and walked to the bank, wondering how on earth he would do such a thing. To his way of thinking, Lady Dagra had proved her creditworthiness by working hard, but he had a feeling that Lucius and Mr. Megalos would not see it that way.
“You’re late,” snapped Lucius, rushing up to Quintus when he got into the lobby.
“No, I’m not,” said Quintus. “I still have plenty of time until—”
“No, you’re late,” said Lucius, “because Mr. Megalos has already been asking for you, and you weren’t here. You’re supposed to go upstairs to his office immediately. Alone.”
Quintus climbed the marble steps and walked down the hallway by himself, wondering what he had done wrong this time, and praying to Pecunius, god of bankers, that he wasn’t about to get fired. Was this about Lady Dagra’s loan again? Or was it possibly about the Gramiren loan? Yes, that seemed more likely. Had the board of directors made a decision at last?
The thick door of Mr. Megalos’s office was slightly ajar, and he heard voices coming from within. The first belonged to the branch director. He didn’t recognize the other, though. At first he thought perhaps it was Brother Hamon, but the voice sounded deeper than that. And it had a kind of exasperated schoolteacher quality that put Quintus in mind of his tutors from years ago.
He entered the office to see Mr. Megalos looking with considerable consternation, and perhaps more than a little fear, at a tall man in dusty clothes. The man had long, reddish-brown hair tied back in a ponytail with a bit of twine. When he turned and glowered at Quintus from under a pair of thick eyebrows, Quintus felt as if getting fired might be the best he could hope for.
“This is the young man who first spoke to the Gramiren agent?” asked the tall, dusty traveler.
“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Megalos, in a cloying, obsequious tone. “This is Quintus Valerius Verrus.”
The mysterious visitor crossed the room in long, quick strides and then stopped, peering into Quintus’s eyes as if searching there for the answer to some unknown question. Quintus could hardly breathe, he was so intimidated.
Then the stranger stepped back and bowed. “My name is Caedmon Aldred, and I am here on behalf of Diernemynster. Do you know what Diernemynster is, Mr. Verrus?”
Did he know? Who on earth didn’t know about Diernemynster, the famous sorcerers’ haven in the northern mountains of distant Myrcia? And Quintus knew the name “Caedmon Aldred,” as well.
“Yes, sir,” he said, feeling a bit weak in the knees. “Are you...are you really Lord Aldred?”
“Yes. I have been all my life.”
“The...the companion of Edmund Dryhten, first King of Myrcia? The man who vanquished the dark sorcerer Kuhlbert at the Battle of—”
Aldred gave an impatient wave of the hand, as if batting away a fly. “Yes, yes. That is all neither here nor there. I did not ride hundreds of miles to hear a recitation of my own accomplishments. I am here about the loan that the Gramirens have requested.”
“Lord Aldred met with the directors who live in the area last night,” said Mr. Megalos. “There will be no loan.”
“Why not?” Quintus blurted out.
“Because Diernemynster does not wish it,” said Mr. Megalos severely. “And this bank prefers to stay on good terms with Diernemynster.”
Aldred’s frown deepened. “Mr. Verrus, if the Gramiren family manages to get a loan, then the civil war will continue for generations. Our concern at Diernemynster is with the stability of the kingdom. Our Freagast—our leader, if you will—has made ending this war his priority.”
Mr. Megalos left his desk and bustled over. “Lord Aldred, perhaps you would be more comfortable if you were seated over here.” He gestured over to several chairs, upholstered in blue silk, surrounding a low table.
“Yes, Mr. Verrus,” said Aldred, gesturing toward the chairs. “Please join me.”
“And perhaps some wine?” suggested the branch director.
Without taking his eyes off Quintus, Aldred said, “Yes, Mr. Megalos. Would you mind fetching it yourself? I need a word with young Quintus here. Alone, if you please.”
At first, Mr. Megalos looked quite affronted at being told to leave his own office, and seemed on the verge of saying so, but then he appeared to think better of it and left, bowing repeatedly.
Quintus would have loved to follow him. What on earth could this famous hillichmagnar possibly want with him? Would Aldred use some sort of fiendish tortures on him for daring to suggest the loan in the first place?
“Mr. Verrus, please sit.” Again he gestured at the silk-upholstered chairs. He took one; Quintus took another, collapsing awkwardly into it and trying to push back so he wasn’t sitting quite so close to the hillichmagnar.
Aldred scooted his chair so he was even closer now than before. “Mr. Verrus, when you spoke to the Gramiren agent, did he tell you what his employers were proposing to use for collateral?”
“No, sir. The agent never told me, and said he’d only talk about it to the directors. But he said it was priceless, whatever it was.”
Again, Aldred leaned close and peered deeply into Quintus’s eyes. Then he sat back again, satisfied. “The collateral is, indeed, priceless. The Gramirens, when they left Formacaster, took a great deal of money, but that can easily be replaced. They also stole three famous treasures of Myrcia: two are mere historical curiosities, and they could be replaced, too, although it would pain me to see them lost forever. The last treasure, though, is a repository of unspeakable magysk power, and the Gramirens must return it to its rightful place.”
“Are we talking about...some sort of magysk ring? That sort of thing, sir?” He recalled hearing old fairy tales about powerful rings and heroes fighting dragons back in his youth.
“It would be best if you did not know precisely what was stolen, Mr. Verrus. It would do no one any good if the theft were widely known.”
He had no idea what made him say it, except that his father, his brother, and Mr. Megalos had always insisted that he be very precise in his use of legal terms. “Sir, you keep speaking as if the Gramirens are thieves. But if they’re the rightful rulers of Myrcia, then the treasures belong to them, don’t they?”
Aldred gave him such a stern look that Quintus really thought he was about to die.
“No, Mr. Verrus, the Gramirens are not, in fact, the rightful rulers of Myrcia. Broderick Gramiren the elder, the one recently assassinated, was the bastard son of old King Ethelred. He had no more legal claim to the throne than you or I.” Aldred gave an irritated wave of his hand. “In any case, even if they were the legitimate heirs, they would have no right to take the treasures. Those belong to the kingdom.”
Quintus nodded, though he wasn’t quite sure he accepted Aldred’s argument. Legal niceties didn’t mean much to people like poor Lady Dagra, who had been hounded out of their homes by the Sigors.
“When you spoke to this agent,” Aldred went on, “did he give any indication—however slight—of where the Gramirens might currently be hiding?”
“No, sir,” said Quintus. “No indication at all.” In his mind, he added, “And if he had, I wouldn’t tell you.” Again, Aldred gave him a long searching look, and Quintus shivered, wondering if the famous sorcerer was using some sort of spell to see if he was telling the truth.
Then Aldred stood and bowed. “Mr. Verrus, I would very much like to speak with the Gramiren agent who requested the loan.”
“What will you do with him?”
“Ask him some questions,” said Aldred. “Believe me when I say that it will be much better for him if I am the one who asks, rather than some other people who are looking for him. If you should happen to see him again, tell him that.”
He waved a hand and, all on its own, the door to the office swung open, revealing the sweating, red-faced figure of Mr. Megalos, holding a silver tray with a wine bottle and cups.
“Now really,” said the director, “I’ve been out here banging on my own damned door for a solid minute.” He tried to hand the tray with the wine to Aldred, but the hillichmagnar waved him off.
“I do apologize,” said Aldred, “but I was just leaving.” He gestured toward Quintus. “I think Mr. Verrus could use a cup of wine, though. He has been very helpful, Mr. Megalos. Very helpful, indeed. He is...a model employee.”