Mick grew somber for a moment and leaned forward, the movement clearly a pain for him.
“Myyyyyyyyyy. Connnnnnnnnnn. Dooooooooooo. Lenceeeeeeeeees. Foooooooooor. Yoooouuuuuuur. Loooooooosssssssss.”
She bowed her head once and said nothing. She would not think of that. Not yet. She could not.
The table between them was a battered and scarred and burned thing that dominated much of the room. Mick sat on one side, his back to a wall, two guards standing near him. The others were arranged throughout the room, leaning casually against walls or standing near the door, each one a violent and dangerous possibility.
On the table, books full of graphs and numbers and charts lay open, and scattered around and atop these were notes and letters of all types. She longed to rake her eyes over and through this written chaos, to wriggle through the tiny nettles of the pages and lose herself in them. Words, when written, were a labyrinth she could wander forever.
“New friends, Mick?” Kindred asked, gesturing to the bodyguards. “The last time I was here, it was just you and—what was her name? Lita?”
Mick nodded slowly. Ponderously.
“Leeeeeeee. Ta.”
Mick lifted a thin, veiny hand, one finger flicking at a few of the guards.
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanger. Ousssssssssss. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime. Sssssssssss.”
Kindred had no idea who would threaten Mick. True, he provided water outside of the church’s, and now the Collective’s, purview—though he wasn’t even close to the only one—and true, his dealings had never been especially legitimate, but Mick had been in operation for more years than Kindred could remember, and it was well known that he was both fair in business and not a person to cross.
In addition to stories about his few clandestine wells, it was an open secret that Mick had a network of water catchment systems that would spring up during the rare rainstorm that blew across the Sea, each one set up and taken down by the myriad people in the city on Mick’s secret payroll—politicians and the poor alike. Mick’s roots were as deep and wide as the Sea itself, it was said.
Growing up on the deck of Revenger, Kindred had learned plenty about the water merchants of Arcadia, how they held power and privilege unimaginable, and Mick was no exception. The Marchess had told Kindred stories about his kindnesses, his tendency to offer free water to those who needed it, but she also told Kindred of those foolish enough to challenge or wrong him. Kindred had no interest in being one of those people.
And now, here he was, speaking of danger, his eyes betraying a nervousness, his normally steady hands shaking a little as he moved. Something was not at all right.
But Kindred kept her composure, her mind still pulling at the odd encounter with Low. This was a concrete problem, a confusing mess but one she could solve, one she could push and pull at.
“I’m here on behalf of Captain Caraway,” she said, sitting forward in the chair and placing her open hands on the table, palms down. “She asks for a refill of The Errant’s water stores.”
Mick nodded.
“Yeeeeeeeeessssss. Buuuuuuuuuut.” He gestured to one of his bodyguards, who said, “Our rates are higher than they used to be.”
Kindred cocked her head, suddenly aware of how warm and close the room was. A prickle of sweat picked its way down her back.
“What’s the problem?”
“Coooooooooo. Leeeeeeeeeeec. Tiiiiiiiiiive.”
Mick gestured at his table, and Kindred followed his finger to a letter stamped with Cantrev’s sigil and name.
“Cantrev?”
“Seeeeeeennnnn. Aaaaaaa. Tooooooooor. Caaaaaaaaaaan. Treeeeeeeeev.”
The Cantrev she still had in her mind was a small-timer, a midlevel agitator who was best known for his bawling, fatuous speeches delivered along Rickshaw Square every morning. Kindred had only seen him a few times, but she had heard it was always the same: a black, polished box was brought out into the square—Rickshaw being the epicenter of Arcadia’s wealthier, resource-rich population, the square was better taken care of than most of Arcadia.
Cantrev would wait for one of his lackeys to place the box onto the ground and quiet passersby. Once he was satisfied he had everyone’s attention, Cantrev would step ponderously onto the box and begin holding forth, the spittle exploding from his lips giving form and movement to the vitriol of his words, evidence of his wealth. Only someone well hydrated could produce such eruptions.
“What does Cantrev have to do with you giving us water?” That feeling of tension and anger, wild and rabid, began to pulse within her again, and she fed it.
Mick gestured to one of his guards, flicking his fingers. Speaking was difficult for him, a slow, breathy task, and his throat became quickly parched. While he slurped at a bowl of water from the table, the guard nearest him, a woman with close-cropped hair and swords angling up from either hip spoke.
“Cantrev has convinced the councils to form an economic partnership with all who sell water.” She counted them off on her fingers: “The Church of the Water Wight, Carlus Canker, the Zero twins, the Misters, Tula, and Winders. The order is to not trade with anyone who hasn’t joined the Collective. And Cantrev wants those who haven’t joined or won’t join reported immediately.”
She paused before continuing.
“And The Errant is not on the list of vessels who have joined the Collective.”
The strange meeting with Low, Cantrev’s smug sneers, the blue of his senatorial face paint: it all began to chime clarity in Kindred’s mind. Cantrev had gained the power to give his Collective teeth; what had been a loose association of lackeys pulled together by a small-time politician was now a web threading over all of Arcadia, its sticky pull angling closer and closer to The Errant, to Captain Caraway, to Kindred.
This was trouble.
And yet Kindred needed water.
“And you?” Kindred asked, turning back to Mick. “Have you joined with Cantrev?”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck. Caaaaaaaaaan Treeeeeev.” Mick’s eyes were hard things, and his fingers curled into bony, shaking fists.
“No, we do not support Cantrev or his calls for unification. But the bribes we pay are now much more expensive. Many of our water sources have been compromised as well, and so our rates have increased.”
Mick raised both of his hands, palms up. What can be done?
Kindred might have protested, but she thought of their huge payday, the bundles and bundles of plants they’d harvested. It would do.
“We can deal,” Kindred said, leaning forward.
CHAPTER THREE
With Mick’s promise that his people would have The Errant filled soon, Kindred set off again into the city. She walked without much purpose, not yet having decided whether to report back to The Errant right away to tell Captain Caraway about the change with the Collective or go about finding a place to sleep once morning arrived.