Gyrfalcon chuckled again. “Just like home.”

“Worse. Filth and flies. Rats. It isn’t just that the people want a caldé, though they do. We do. We’re businesspeople at base, all of us. Traders and merchants. Sharpers, if you like.”

“I must-ah,” Remora began.

“All right, all except His Cognizance, who never hedges the truth even a finger’s width. Or so he says.” Blazingstar gave Remora a scornful smile. “But the rest of us need to carry on our businesses, and it’s become almost impossible to do that in New Viron.”

Marrow added, “And getting worse.”

“Getting worse. Exactly.”

You asked, “Can’t one of you be caldé?”

Gyrfalcon laughed aloud at that; he has a good, booming laugh. “Suppose one of us became caldé tomorrow. How about old Marrow there? He wants it.”

“I feel sure it would be a wonderful improvement.”

Marrow thanked you. “For you and your family it would be, Nettle. What do think it would be for them?” He glanced around at Gyrfalcon, Remora, Eschar, and Blazingstar.

“An improvement, too, I think.”

“Not a bit of it.” Marrow had rapped the table before; now he struck it with his fist, rattling our mugs and plates. “I would take everything I could get. I would do my best to ruin them, and if you ask me I would succeed.” He smiled, and glanced around at the woman and the three men I had believed were his friends. “They know it well, my dear. And, Nettle, they would do the same to me.”

Eschar told you, “We need Caldé Silk here. I was the first to suggest it.”

“He’s still in the Whorl, isn’t he? And… I don’t like to say this.”

“Then I will.” Blazingstar reached across the table we had made to cover your hand with her own. “He may be dead. I left sixteen years ago, and by this time it’s certainly possible.”