The Thirty-Second of Loshis, Nineteen Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour
The manifests have brought him here. Customs inspections, duties charges, accountings of goods and passenger logs. The jargon still escapes him, but the numbers at least line up. Or, rather, they fail to do so. Not by much and not from any one vessel, but in the aggregate more tonnage is moving up and down the spires than has been declared. A certain amount of smuggling is to be expected, even tolerated. No discrepancies would tend to indicate a massive and useless government overspend on customs inspectors, trade representatives, and the inevitable clerks that did the real work. He cannot fault them for their blindness to the discrepancies. They deal with matters as they arise, matters that must be resolved in fleeting moments. They do not have the luxury of cross-checking years of records against each other, against tonnage and capacity. This is a luxury he has afforded himself. A luxury he indulges in behind his indigo door in Chancery.
He is not the only one who has realized something is amiss.
The Inspector’s name has appeared in several reports. Some, heavily redacted. Most are still under seal, but it is only a matter of time before those seals are broken and the full records are in his hands. It is a wonder what the Consular Select Committee on Oversight and Legal Reform can accomplish. Never mind that the committee is mostly staffed by daft old Incumbents who wish for a few final laurels to decorate their career. It gives him leave to carry out his work, to follow up on disparate matters, to trace seemingly unrelated oddities to a common source.
At Gaithwine Street, just before it turns along the riverbank, he pauses and checks his watch. Nineteen minutes past the seventeenth hour; more than enough time to make it to the little coffee house just abaft the bridge over to the Rookery. It is inferior to the Elephant, the coffee is Bastian, good, but not to his preferred taste. Still, Bastian pressure coffee is ubiquitous and more than pleasant enough. It will serve to lubricate the conversation he must have.
How many Seventen must he treat with? They seem to hold something near a monopoly on useful information, potentially useful information. Then again, they too keep records. That at least speaks in their favor. The investigative division is not so crass and thick headed as patrol. Less prone to kicking down doors, more prone to lurking in alleyways or else slowly grilling a malefactor with burning questions. That is also respectable. That is also sound.
Rainsford & Sons Coffee House, a little way away from the river. Dirigible masters, shipping insurers, merchant traders: these are the usual clientele. A noisy lot. Convivial and all looking for the main chance. All looking for a means to make their fortune. It is Rainsford that makes the fortune. Aeronautical commerce is a thirsty business, afterall.
He has arranged his table beforehand, small and marble-topped, a little ways away toward the back, but with command of the Haslet Street door. The Inspector will be along in due course. He has only to wait. Coffee will make the waiting all the easier.