“These people are among the hardest workers in the city,” Malden said as Croy stared in horror. “They toil in shifts to make sure nothing is missed. Their bodies are riddled with plague and disease, they eat nothing but thin pottage, and they die years younger than their fellows, because they breathe nothing but foul vapors. They toil in the heat of summer, and when winter comes they shovel the snow off those heaps and sort through the offal wearing fingerless gloves. They don’t do this for glory, or honor, or love or justice. They do it so they can eat for one more day.”

“That’s terrible, Malden,” Croy said. “I never knew. Are they slaves that do this work? I thought there were no slaves in Ness.”

“There aren’t. No one compels them to this life. In fact—the gleaners have a patent from the Burgrave that gives them sole right to do this. If you or I were to wade in there and start looking for treasures in the trash, they would drive us off with clubs and thrown stones. They kill anyone who tries to encroach on their livelihood. Generations of men have worked these heaps—when a father dies, he passes down his writ of patent to his sons, who are glad to have it, for they know they’ll be able to feed their children.”

“So they have pride in their work,” Croy said, lifting his chin. “I find that admirable.”

Malden shook his head. “Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you? There is competition for this. There are people willing to risk their lives to sneak in here in the middle of the night and sort through rusted nails and the guts of slaughtered chickens. Because their own lives are that much worse.”

Croy was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The Lady gives each of us our lot in life, and her abundance sustains us all. This I believe, and this I live.”

Was he quoting from some missal? Malden had never listened to the blandishments of the Lady’s priests. Not since he’d realized that Her teachings gave an excuse why rich men should always be rich, and the poor shouldn’t try to rise above their stations. Like most in the Stink, whatever religious feeling he possessed was directed toward the Bloodgod, who promised equal justice for all, if only after death.

“You’ll never understand, will you? I can’t make you see it. Enough. Let us find our bravos and be done. Perhaps you can be of some little use by pointing out which of them are likely to last the longest against Bikker’s sword.”

Malden hurried away—the prospect of the middens never gave him any joy, nor did he wish to linger in that disease-haunted place.

“Hold,” Croy said. “If it’s strong arms you need, perhaps I have a better idea.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Seven