WHILE MOST OF Firstday had been spent upstairs in the palace with her Family, Shironne had come down at dinnertime to rejoin the sixteens for a relaxed evening drinking tea and eating more of the day-old flatbread and fruit. The time was meant for them to be together, since they likely would for most of the rest of their lives.
Mostly, the members of her yeargroup—and Shironne was beginning to think of them as her yeargroup—talked about their plans for the upcoming week. They gossiped a bit as well, the most often-hit targets being Maria—who had chosen to spend her evening in the Fortress’ library on One Down, not so much studying as being away from the rest of them—and Eli.
Tabita whispered that Eli, who was also absent, had likely snuck off to secretly meet with his girlfriend Rebekka, one of the seventeens. This was all delivered in whispers so that no one would overhear Tabita’s words, but it made Shironne wonder if those clandestine meetings might be the reason Eli was reluctant to report his foster sister’s misbehavior.
So much for him being perfect.
“Do the elders not forbid that?” she whispered back in hopes their sponsors wouldn’t overhear. Their elderly sponsors sat at a table in one corner of the commons working on quilts, Tabita told her, although Shironne couldn’t sense them there. They were simply available to chat and chose not to make their presence known otherwise—present, yet not involved, another way to encourage the autonomy of the sixteens, it seemed. Norah, however, was determined to learn the quilting pattern that Clara used, so she’d gone off to sit with them.
“They do,” Tabita said softly, “but they also know they can’t stop it completely.”
“How is that different from what Maria has done?”
Tabita sighed. “It isn’t, but if she’s pregnant, that changes the equation. It’s proof, among other things. And that would be bringing a child into the yeargroup, and that’s a big responsibility for us to take on so young.”
Shironne pressed her lips together, working through what she thought Tabita meant, borrowing from Mikael’s head to do so. Larossan girls were expected to remain virgins until marriage, and if a girl was caught with a man, it would be assumed that she was impure, and thus unmarriageable. While there might be some deniability if the girl disavowed any involvement, if she became pregnant, it would be very difficult to deny. Since marriage was one of the ways Larossan families made alliances, that could be harmful to the entire family’s fortunes.
However, the Lucas Family apparently looked at the whole thing differently. Once they became seventeens, they were adults and began serving three years of mandatory sentry duty. It was a time when they were expected to decide which specialization within the Family they wished to follow: military, carer, or support. The introduction of children into a yeargroup was concerning because it meant the entire yeargroup had to work their schedules around caring for a child. Therefore, they generally avoided having children until they were older.
That was a foreign thought for her, so she spent some time wondering exactly how those children were avoided, which, after peeking into what Mikael knew of such things, gave her quite a lot to consider. She’d known Mikael wasn’t an innocent, so it wasn’t a surprise that he knew some of the things that he did. Instead, it was more surprising that he considered it his responsibility not to impregnate a woman. That would take some examination later.
Tabita pinched her side. “Don’t do that.”
Shironne forced herself back to the present. “I don’t really understand who’s responsible for a baby.” She felt her face flush. “Legally, I mean. I do understand . . . the other part.”
Tabita sighed. “It should be the mother and father, who live in the same yeargroup, but sometimes other arrangements are made. If the father is unknown, sometimes the responsibility is divided among the entire yeargroup, or specific people take on guardianship.”
That seemed efficient. Shironne needed to mull that over later, trying to figure out how all of that affected Eli’s possible affair versus Maria’s. “Can you explain all this to me later?”
Tabita leaned closer. “There’s going to be a drill tomorrow, in the afternoon. We can talk after that.”
“A drill?” Mikael’s understanding of the word carried equal levels of annoyance and approval. He liked the idea of drills yet hated participating in them.
“Yes. They do it about twice a year,” Tabita said. “It’s confusing. We join hands and make our way through the halls to the refuge.”
There was some sort of hint in that, an idea not spoken aloud.
Join hands. Shironne understood exactly what Tabita proposed then. “You think I could get near her?”
“Well, it’ll be dark.”
Shironne reviewed the concept of the drill again from Mikael’s point of view, sharing his memories of utter blackness and frightened chatter. “The lights go out?”
“Yes. The key is not to panic. People get hurt when there’s panic, so we’re always reminded that the ambient has to stay calm. Head for the refuge, no matter where you are when it starts. I mean, you should be with us, but . . .”
“Just in case I’m called away.”
“Right,” Tabita said.
“Did you say there’s a drill tomorrow?” Hedda asked, worry swelling.
“I’m not supposed to say,” Tabita whispered back urgently.
“But you told her,” one of the others protested—Hanna.
“She’s blind, so I get to make an exception. Just pretend you don’t know.”
One of them made a vexed sound but subsided.
Tabita didn’t mention the drill or Maria or Eli again, but Shironne lay in her narrow bed that night, thinking that the world of this yeargroup was far more complicated than she’d ever expected.
* * *
Mikael had never enjoyed the occasional covert work called for in his job—usually just gathering information from actual spies within households, not spying himself. He wasn’t fond of sneaking about. But he had—given Anna’s advice to work with the man—sent a note back to the mysterious Gasanen via Synen offering to cooperate. He’d swiftly received a summons to meet the man privately at the tavern during the evening of Firstday, when everyone sensible was with their families. Not that Mikael had any family to speak of here, but he often ate dinner with Deborah on Firstday. However, she was dealing with the Royal House today instead, and that missed meal gave him something to resent as he walked through the chill streets down into the city.
Most sensible Larossan households also gathered on the evening of Firstday, a solemn way to begin their week. They’d picked up the habit from the Families long ago, and by the time the Anvarrid arrived the custom was too ingrained to change. So the streets were quieter than usual at this hour, the temples silent out of respect, although the ever-present chimes and pennants still made their racket.
The Hermlin Black was open, though, as some customers were lodgers, as well, in the less finely appointed rooms on the second floor of the place. Mikael came in through the back door of the blessedly warm kitchen, surprising Synen’s wife and son as they loaded a tray with ale.
Gasanen sat quietly at the table, reading a book, directly in front of the pennant that bore the sigil for prosperity, making Mikael wonder if that counted as a portent. When Mikael approached, he rose and tucked the book in a coat pocket, depriving Mikael the chance to know what sort of books the man favored. It had looked like a novel. Gasanen swept one hand toward the table and indicated that Mikael should join him. “Mr. Lee, a few arrangements.”
The barmaid carried off the tray of glasses as Mikael sat, and Synen’s wife studiously concentrated on an excellent-smelling curry, the smell of which reminded Mikael again that he hadn’t eaten dinner. “What do you need from me?”
“You have a man placed in the commissioner’s stables, a fellow named Pamini,” Gasanen began.
Mikael did his best to keep his reaction off his face. This man could likely read him, but Pamini wasn’t his, or a man, exactly, so Gasanen didn’t know everything. “And?”
“I need a distraction in the stables,” Gasanen said, “to get one of my men into the house.”
Mikael was fairly sure Pamini would be amenable to that, although he hadn’t spoken to her since that day at the hotel. “Such as?”
“A fire might do it,” Gasanen said, one dark brow lifting. “For what it’s worth, your man won’t be working there after that night, so he needn’t worry about repercussions for whatever he does.”
Apparently, Gasanen planned for the police commissioner’s downfall to be swift. “I am not sure my man would be willing to risk the horses.”
Gasanen’s brows rose just a bit.
“I am serious about that,” Mikael added. “If you need a fire, you need a plan for getting the horses out safely.”
Gasanen tapped one finger on the table. “Fine. Find out how many horses there are, and I will arrange for handlers to move the horses to another location.”
Interesting that he knew Pamini was working in the stables, but not how many horses there were. His spy was stationed outside the household, most likely. “When do you plan this raid of yours to happen?”
“Raid is a rather grand word,” Gasanen said. “One man, in and out.”
Mikael wasn’t sure why Gasanen didn’t simply pick a time when Faralis went down to the court or the stations to yell at the police officers. The whole idea seemed . . . off. But if he was supposed to cultivate this acquaintance, he shouldn’t ask too many questions. Not yet. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. So hurry. Leave word for me here. If you get me the numbers first, I’ll get your man a time.”
The large Larossan bodyguard stepped inside the kitchen. This time he wore a dark tunic and trousers with an overcoat atop it, but a sash about his waist barely concealed the pistol hidden within. His sharp eyes flicked from Mikael to Synen’s wife to the back door. “Sir, now.”
Mikael nodded to the man once. This wasn’t a Family guard, but he did the same work. Gasanen rose, so Mikael rose with him.
Someone was evidently out in that taproom who Gasanen felt shouldn’t know about his presence here. That tempted Mikael to look over the crowd but doing so might give away with whom Gasanen had met.
The bodyguard handed over the second coat. Gasanen swept it on, then lifted the hood. It was dove-gray, and could be mistaken for a police overcoat, Mikael reckoned. A moment later, Gasanen and his guard strode out the back door.
He didn’t like the plan, such as it was. Gasanen could surely hire a good thief to break into Faralis’ house. He didn’t need a fire in the stables to do that. The man had to have a reason for that request.
Synen returned to the kitchen then, his round dark face worried. “Are you in trouble, Mr. Lee?”
Synen had always taken care of him, one reason Mikael had been willing to hear Gasanen out in the first place. Synen wouldn’t let the man in here, surely, if he was likely to harm Synen’s guests. “What can you tell me about Mr. Gasanen?”
Synen’s mouth pursed. “We were in trouble a few years back. A fire in the stable burnt right through the wall to the bedrooms. About to lose the tavern. He lent us the money to repair it, get back on our feet. After about a year, our debt was forgiven.”
“Officially?” Mikael asked.
“Stamped and everything, boy. The word down here is that he’ll lend money to people like me, but if he sees you’re working to pay it back, honest-like, not mistreating your workers or your family . . . he might forgive the debt.”
And in return Gasanen received? Respect, perhaps? Or perhaps the man simply wanted to help others less fortunate than himself.
Or perhaps he saw a source of information, people whom others might pass over—like Synen and Dimani—who, when properly motivated, could find out things Gasanen needed to know and pass them on.
How is what I do any different? It was a depressingly cynical thought.