The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [118]
“And could you?” Trinica asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “But I didn’t. I don’t work for the Navy, whatever the price. A man needs principles.” He pressed the jigsaw piece into place, and it fitted with a click. Then he sat back in his chair, as if well satisfied with his achievement. “So,” he said. “To business. You’ll be looking for Harvin Grist, then?”
If Trinica was as surprised as Frey was, she didn’t show it. “News travels fast,” she said.
“I make it my business to be the first to know,” said Smult. “That’s why I charge what I charge.”
“And you know where he is?”
“Not yet. But I have my eyes and ears out there. It won’t be long. In the meantime, I can point you in the right direction.”
Trinica produced a bag of coins from some concealed pocket in her clothing. Frey hadn’t even known she was carrying any. She held it up and jingled it. Smult tilted his head, listening.
“Why don’t you tell me what you do know?” Trinica suggested. “And I’ll come back with more when you find him.”
Smult nodded at his bodyguard, who took the bag from Trinica and opened it up. Frey stared at it enviously. It galled him that Trinica could throw money around like that when he had barely enough to keep the Ketty Jay in the air. But he was damned if he’d ask her for any. That would be too much to take.
The bodyguard whispered in Smult’s ear, then put the bag on the table next to him. Smult nodded and waved him away.
“Harvin Grist,” said Smult. “Here’s what I know. Born in Whiterock, north of Marduk. Cold up there. His father was a scholar. Maurin Grist. Mother died of some kind of wasting disease; Grist watched her go. Long, drawn-out affair. Quite traumatized the boy, if I understand correct.” Smult’s tongue, rough with boils, slipped out to lick at dry lips. “Maurin moved them to Bestwark soon after. Had a position at the university. Went on to become a big name there.”
Frey opened his mouth to ask what his father had to do with anything, but Trinica silenced him with a glare. Frey rolled his eyes and settled back on his heels. He had the feeling that Smult was showing off the fact that he had all this information at hand.
Just tell us where to look for him!
“By all accounts, the boy didn’t get much attention,” Smult continued. “Maurin was wrapped up in his work. Distant sort. Young Harvin was an outstandin’ student, sportsman, all of that. The pride of his school. But Daddy didn’t notice. In fact, the only time Daddy noticed him was when he was misbehavin’. So he misbehaved. And he kept on misbehavin’. Went off the rails, I believe is the term.”
Trinica was listening closely. She seemed to be finding some value in this tale that Frey was obviously missing.
“So he’s smart? Educated?” she inquired.
“Smart, yes. Educated, to a point.”
“What then?”
“He left. Dropped out of school, ran away with some friends of his. They signed on with a freight captain and never looked back. He moved from place to place, crew to crew, all the usual. He talks like a pirate, but he’s cleverer than he looks. He saved what money he had, put it places where it’d grow. Made deals and investments. Picked the right crews, made big scores, took the money, and moved on. Sooner or later he got the scratch together for a craft of his own. That’s when he started running narcotics.”
Despite his impatience, Frey was becoming interested. It was strange to hear the details of Grist’s past laid out like this. Curious to think that the grizzled, cigar-smoking bully had once been young. A boy who had watched his mother slowly decay, in painful degrees, before his eyes. A young man clamoring for a distant father’s attention.
“I imagine he made a lot of money,” Trinica suggested.
Smult nodded. “He did. Worked the north coast, up in Marduk and Yortland. He’d fly through the fogs when other pilots wouldn’t dare for fear of the Manes. With the profits, he bought bigger craft. Had quite a few to his name at one point. Then he sold ’em all off and bought that Cloudhammer he flies about in now. Didn’t have much fear