“I have a proposal I’m looking at from a man who makes his fortune searching for lost things,” Cithrin said. “It isn’t the sort of thing Pyk would be comfortable with, do you think?”
Marcus looked sideways at her.
“It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing she would,” he said. “Do banks even do that?”
“Banks do whatever brings money to banks,” Cithrin said. “Still, it’s given me an idea, and I’d like you to look into it. If you can.”
“You know you can’t negotiate anything…”
“I don’t think that would be an issue. And really, nothing may come of this. But if it does, we might be able to bring Pyk enough money to restore the guards.”
“That’s an interesting thought,” Marcus said. “What kind of business are you looking to start?”
“Nothing outside the bank. It isn’t really even a new business.”
“It’s looking for lost things.”
“Yes.”
“Something we’ve lost.”
“Yes.”
The seawall was whitewashed stone, and looked out over the pale water of the bay. The dropoff where the deeper water began was a blue as profound as indigo. Near the docks, it was shallow enough to be almost the color of sand. A guideboat was leading a shallow-bottomed galley through the reefs and sandbars that protected the city’s seaward face. In the centuries of its life, Porte Oliva had fallen, but never to force.
Marcus leaned against the wall, looking out over the water. The angle of the sun showed the white hair mixed in among the brown. His eyes were narrowed against the light.
“And what is it we lost that you’re thinking to look for?”
“The cargo of the Stormcrow,” she said. “We’re about to pay for it. The pirates have to come to ground somewhere. If we can find where, we might be able to recover some part of what we’ve lost. Even if it was a tenth of the manifest, it would be enough to put the guards back to full pay.”
Seagulls wheeled past the wall, wide wings riding the rising air where the breeze from the sea broke against the walls of the city. Seven young Timzinae men in the canvas of sailors walked past, laughing and talking too loud. One of them shouted something playful and obscene. Marcus turned to watch them pass.
“I can ask around, I suppose,” Marcus said. “No harm in that.”
“It would have to be done quickly.”
“I can talk quickly,” he said. “What are we trying to do with it? If we find the cargo and bring it back, what do you think we’ll have won?”
“We’re keeping money for the branch,” Cithrin said.
“Pyk’s not going to thank us for that.”
“We wouldn’t be doing it for her.”
“Ah,” Marcus said. “So it doesn’t help with the real problem.”
“Not directly. But if the branch does better because of what we do, it may be of use later. When Pyk’s moved on.”
“And when are you expecting that to be?”
Annoyance knotted itself between her shoulder blades and she crossed her arms. A seagull swooped past, its shadow darkening her face and then vanishing again.
“I have to do something,” she said. “I can’t just sit here and watch her play the game so safely that we lose it.”
“Agreed. And I’m in favor of anything that gets my men paid, not to mention myself. Going behind Pyk’s back only makes it sweeter. But if it works, the branch does better, and she’s more likely to stay.”
“But if we cut down the bank in order to get rid of her, then we’ve cut down the bank.”
Cithrin put her palms to her temples. She and Pyk had the same problem at heart.
“If we could just trade roles,” she said. “I don’t care if I go to banquets and feasts. I just want control of the books.”
“Don’t think she’s likely to agree to that.”
“We could kill her,” Cithrin joked.
“I’m not sure that would win the trust and approbation of the holding company,” Marcus said. “But we’re going to have to do something.”
Cithrin shook her head. His words were like swallowing pebbles, a weight growing in her belly. She thought of the taproom, but pushed the thought aside. Ale wasn’t going to help. It wasn’t even really going to make her feel better. But it might help her sleep.
“They’re never going to trust me, are they?” she said. “Komme Medean. The holding company.”
“They might trust you once they know you better.”
“Well, maybe I’ll write them some pretty letters,” she said sourly.