Chapter 12
“I assure you,” Chain said, leaning back in her chair, “that this is a formality.”
“It doesn't feel like it,” Par said. He put his arms behind his head, a subtle display of dominance that in no way worked. “It feels like you're questioning me, Contegon.”
They stared at each other across the desk she bought. After seeing Grandmother Grass, Chain felt she had to continue looking into the Family Mine's output. There was something empowering and inspiring about the Attendances: she felt like she was definitely doing Sol's work. Outside of raising Carmen, the last time she'd felt this certain had been during the Battle for Aureu. And she could not ignore that certainty.
Politics meant she had to be careful, and so she was asking about waste products from the mining process: tons of loose dirt was produced every month and there were strict laws about its disposal. Asking about them could prove the Mine's true output, whilst seeming tangential enough to be an innocent inquiry.
Par continued to stare, a seeming challenge. His deep wrinkles were pooled in darkness, the light from his single candle barely reaching them. Those dark eyes were almost hidden by folds of skin. Chain stared back. Was this the face of a thief? Could this even be the face of a Heretic? His disdain and unhappiness at his placement was well known, and his demeanour was never that of a man accepting of his lot in life.
Though Chain was similar: here she was, ignoring a Cleric's advice to intervene in another Station. But Chain sought to understand the bounds of, and work within, Sol's great design... whereas Par might be trying to break it. Or he might not: his new Merchants could be changing the reports, sneaking money out for themselves. Her assessment of his character and his surly nature could be the root of her suspicions.
Which was why she backed down from his stare. “I am merely checking those aspects of Buckle that I usually don't investigate. Grain can tell you that I was in with her on very routine matters too.”
“I'm sure she will,” Par said with a frown. “Very well. I don't know why you care about our soil disposal reports, but it is not my place to judge, is it, sire?”
Chain shrugged and sat forward slightly. “It is down to you whether you judge me or anyone else, Par, so long as you don't profess to do so on Sol's behalf.”
The Merchant leant forward and rifled through his papers. He muttered as he looked under one pile, and then another, peeking like a pervert. The floor squealed as he forced his chair back to rummage through the desk's ample drawers, three on either side of him.
Chain had shipped his desk all the way from Aureu as a token of good faith and friendship to the other half of Buckle’s administration: she its soul, and he its heart, keeping its lifeblood moving. His haphazard way of piling the paper he was supposed to keep in it and the great blobs of candle wax proved the intention had not been accepted, and made her feel slighted.
After another minute, Par put a crumpled ball of paper on the desk. He straightened, putting his hand on his back to stretch it out, and then unfurled the document.
“Here you are, Contegon,” he said as he flattened the papers. “Last month's report.”
The papers were a four page document covering the past year, the standards being met, and the methods for disposal of the dirt: it seemed that they shipped it to Artificers in Stitch, the largest town for miles around. She looked over the paper and noted that there had been a reduction in the number of shipments to Stitch over the past five months, attributed to wastage.
“And Grain has a copy of this?” Chain asked.
“Of course. The Bureau will do as well.”
Chain nodded. If they had found exceptionally rich Sol's Pockets, the ratio of dirt to Circles would have dropped, as it had here. If you didn't trust wastage as an excuse for the reduced shipments, it seemed like evidence of skimming.
She wondered how a skimming operation was even perpetrated. Perhaps some sifters were in on it, pocketing the gems they found for their superiors. If she'd not had the truth directly from Side, she might never have suspected a conspiracy, but these reports were fuel to the fire.
“Is everything in order, Contegon?” Par asked.
“It is,” Chain said, handing the document back. “Thank you for indulging me.”
“I still don't see why that required you coming out all the way here...”
“It didn't,” she replied, standing. “I run a number of different patrols, Par, and today's merely brought me close to you. Whilst I was here, I decided to clear my conscience by looking at a small matter.”
Par sucked on his cracked top lip. “Well, I'm glad you feel better.”
“I do,” Chain said. “Good evening, Par.”
“Good evening, sire,” he replied, acquiescing.
Sol had almost set when she stepped outside. The sky was a lurid orange, the kind of colour that showed Sol had a sense of humour. It was late, but there would still be leftovers when she got back. Bracket would warm it, and then she would share some time with her family.
Thoughts of home were interrupted when someone stepped beside her, matching her pace. It was Shovel. The Stationless young man gave her a bright and proud smile. “Good evening, Contegon,” he said.
“Good evening, Shovel. How are you?”
“Delighted that a Contegon would be paying attention to me, a Stationless sort.”
Chain looked at him sidelong. “The Stationless are always worthy of a Contegon's attention: they may simply get less of it sometimes.”
“When a person of Station is involved,” Shovel said, nodding.
“Well, yes. But that is the way of Sol.”
“It is. It is. I have heard that you're paying a lot of attention to people in Stations recently.”
“Have you now?” Chain asked.
Shovel grinned, an odd gesture that didn't seem to match his face, like the smile was slapped on. “I have. It's interesting to me, the activities of the Stationed, as they are something I will never know. So I ask and am told things. Including what you have been doing recently.”
Chain looked the young man up and down. He did odd jobs for a living, flitted around doing as much as he could without encroaching on any Station's jurisdiction. It was surprising that he wasn't Stationed: he was bright enough. Perhaps some fault in his work ethic was to blame, or the strange way he treated the Stationed. He'd certainly always treated Chain oddly, intrigue and awe combined with a frank friendliness and borderline disrespect.
“And what have you heard about me?” she asked.
“That you believe there is something foul and rotten in Buckle.”
How could he have heard about her investigations? Had Grain been spilling her secrets? Or had someone listened to her Attendance of Grandmother Grass? She would speak to anyone present at the next session about the importance of secrecy, take the measure of their reactions.
“Whoever thinks that would be a matter for idle chatter is sorely mistaken.”
“Myself included?” Shovel asked.
“Yes,” Chain said. “I do not understand why, even if that were true, you would say it to me.”
“I am making conversation, Contegon,” he said, looking away to scan Buckle. “This is my adopted home, and I wish all the right things for it. That means nothing bad having to happen.”
Chain looked around. It was maybe an hour after the Mine had shut down, and every home they passed was warm and lit, the people inside likely enjoying full stomachs and family time after long days. She envied them, and wondered what Shovel, who lived alone, thought when he viewed such familial scenes.
“Where are you originally from?” Chain asked, looking back at the Stationless man. “I have never been able to place your accent.”
“Port,” he said after a moment's hesitation. “My parents were originally from Call, hence my relatively strange qualities and mannerisms.”
That would make sense, but she did not forget his pause, the thought he gave to the answer. “What brought you to
a mountain settlement then? This couldn't be further from the life you knew.”
“Perhaps that was it, that Buckle would be so different. Mostly, I feel like I was called here.”
Chain nodded. “Sol sometimes makes decisions which we do not understand at first.”
Shovel smirked. “That is often the way for people in power.”
Again, that felt like a shot, a small needle. A familiar unhappiness and anger filled her, the feeling of someone not treating her with the respect she deserved. This was not a judgement of her as a Contegon, though: it felt like a judgement of her investigation of the Merchants.
“Your affection for Par does not give you reign to question me, Shovel.”
“Is that what it feels like, Contegon?”
“It's what it was,” Chain replied firmly.
“Then I apologise. Sire.”
It didn't sound like an apology, but Chain accepted it nonetheless.
They walked in silence for a while. Chain cast glances at him as they went, but he almost didn't seem aware of her presence, like they were just two travellers walking to the same place.
“This is where we part,” Chain said when they were near her home.
“Is it?”
She frowned as she said, “Yes. It is.”
“Tell me honestly, sire, is Sol inspiring you to dig deep into the dirt?”
Chain pursed her lips but refused to respond.
Shovel's smile took on a strange quality, a sort of leer. “Have you ever scrabbled in dirt, Contegon? Do you know what it's like to search in a mire for something of value, to plunge yourself head-first into somewhere you do not want to be? Somewhere you ought not to be?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “I led the line at the Battle for Aureu.”
“Did you now?” Shovel asked, that smile solid as he spoke. “You sound as though I should have known that already. Not everyone will have heard about your heroics, Contegon: I imagine even fewer know of your Heresy at the Acolyte's Hereticum. What might they think if they did?”
“That Sol's justice was decided and delivered by the Guardian,” Chain hissed. “Now, we shall part. Good night, Shovel.”
With that, she turned and marched away, doing her best to maintain her composure.
“One more thing, Contegon,” Shovel called after her.
Chain stopped to make it clear she was listening.
“Though you didn't ask,” Shovel continued, that smile still on his voice, “the worst thing about grubbing in the mud is that you get filthy. Sometimes, you get so dirty that you can't wash it out, and no one will recognise you again as a result. If I were you, I would bear that in mind.”
Without responding, Chain walked on. Shovel's odd words stayed with her all night, poisoning her time with Carmen like mud in water.