Anselm lingered over the remains of a sumptuous breakfast, perusing a copy of the morning paper. Awareness of the Andinol domestic cliché he was embodying caused him some small if sour amusement. Morning newspapers were certainly not part of his usual breakfast routine. It had been fifty years or longer since he’d so much as glanced at one of these Andinol gossip sheets. Could there be any slower, stupider way of securing news of any kind that really mattered? The startled look on his valet’s face when Anselm had asked him to go out and procure this copy had been almost enough to make him smile.

This particular edition was filled, of course, with shocking news of the city’s still-unfolding natural disaster, and Anselm had wanted to know what the Andinalloi were saying—to each other—about his handiwork. Some items made him shake his head and tsk. Others made him chuckle. Those concerning the Saddle’s devastation, however, left him only angry…and concerned. His own not inconsiderable holdings on the waterfront were doubtless all a shambles now, which would serve nicely to validate his protests of innocence and shared injury. But the Saddle’s inundation had been unexpected, and unwanted.

Thanks to perennially shabby Andinol standards of craft and construction, things had been lost or damaged there that would be far harder to repair—most particularly, he feared, the continued enthusiasm of many among his own already struggling political base who had, until last night, lived and worked there in ever-increasing penury and quiet humiliation engendered by The Lady’s obstinate concern for Andinol welfare. No one actually knew, of course, exactly who had been responsible for this extraordinary display of power, except those directly responsible for it—discretion being the better part of triumph in any and every case. But none of his own faction—or likely even The Lady’s—should have failed to recognize what they were seeing, or missed its significance. Now, however, far too many of his own loyalists were laid low, without warning or any apparent distinction from their Andinol oppressors. How would that impact their reception of this grand gesture? Not in any helpful way, he felt sure.

He was still reading when Syndaht, his doorkeeper, appeared to inform him of an extremely persistent caller claiming information of urgent interest, for Anselm’s ears alone.

“Not the Chancellor again, I trust,” Anselm mused sardonically.

“No sir.” The doorkeeper’s dark expression all but shouted, Wouldn’t I have said so? Anselm had no more loyal retainer than Syndaht, but really, the man had no sense of humor whatsoever. “He claims to be of our faction, though I’ve never seen him before, and he won’t give me his name.”

“Why ever not?” Anselm said irritably. “I don’t see nameless strangers at any hour, much less before the end of breakfast.”

“I so informed him, sir. He claims the news he bears makes it too dangerous to risk the offer of his name outside, and seems quite certain you will want to hear him, though I’ve made it just as clear how dearly he’ll regret being mistaken about that.”

Anselm frowned down at his paper in thought. The night’s upheaval had doubtless turned a lot of earth. Who could say what revelations might have surfaced in the chaos. …Too dangerous to risk his name… “Does he seem reputable?”

“No, sir,” said Syndaht. “He’s a scrap of rotten cloth from head to toe.”

“And he’s supplied no other hint at all about the nature of his business?”

“Only that he’s come here from the Saddle, sir.”

Anselm looked up sharply. “Well, that might have been useful to know sooner.” Syndaht just gazed back at him in silence, his face shuttered now, as it often became in response to any hint of criticism. “Very well then. Show him in. But have Cullen attend us, just outside the door, in case our acquiescence proves misplaced.”

Moments later, there was another quiet knock at the salon door. The doorkeeper stuck his head in and, at a nod from Anselm, admitted a very weathered fellow, then sketched a slight bow and retreated, pulling the door closed again behind himself.

The man might indeed have crawled out of a dumpster. His age was hard to tell, given his general degradation, but he wasn’t young—by anyone’s standards. There was nothing cowering or apologetic about his bearing, though. He looked Anselm almost eagerly in the eye.

“Is it safe now,” Anselm asked, “to give me your name?”

“I go by Jonah,” the man said gruffly. “Like that fellow in the belly of their whale.”

“I see,” Anselm replied, unsmiling. “And your business with me, Jonah?”

“Are the rumors true?” asked Jonah. “Was it you behind this show?”

“What an impertinent question,” Anselm said, wondering if this were just some operative of Rain’s after all. “Let’s have this dangerous news you bear, or I fear that Cullen, whom I’m sure you saw just now, will have to show you out again.”

“No disrespect intended,” Jonah said, still oddly unruffled. “I’d just like to congratulate whoever done it, is all.”

“Really,” Anselm said, intrigued. “My doorman reports you are…from the Saddle?”

“Yes, sir. Near fifty years now. Lost all I had last night, not that any of it ’mounted to much. T’were a lean life, as you might expect. Given the times.”

“I understand,” Anselm said less gruffly. “But still… Why congratulations?”

“I know a great work when I see it, sir. Been near two hun’red years since I seen anything to compare with what we’s watched these last few days. Wasn’ sure I’d ever see the like again.” Anselm’s brows climbed a fraction as he recognized unshed tears in the old man’s rheumy eyes, and realized he had misjudged him. “Long past time someone reminded ’em what we’re made of. What we could be. If we was allowed to.”

“I see…” Misjudged, and underestimated, Anselm thought, rather badly. How many others out there might surprise him so? “Jonah, I respect our laws as deeply as anyone in this city,” Anselm said, carefully, “and I deplore the terrible costs of last night’s display. But, as you seem to be aware, I cannot entirely disagree with your position. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Rags.” Jonah shrugged. “Others lost much more as had more to lose. But I ain’t met none of our kind yet who’d not pay still more to see our rightful place restored in this world.”

“You are in favor of more liberal limits on our harvest of the Andinalloi, I take it?”

“Drain’em dry, I say,” the man replied. He gestured sourly at his own condition. “Would I be like this if I were but allowed to use what those ignorant cattle squat on unawares? They’d not even have the wit to miss it, would they? Yet here I am, forced to live like I was one of ’em, or nearly so. You see the result of it, I been told, and have the guts to say so. Why don’t The Lady? Why’s she care so much for them instead of me—her own subject, and her kind?”

“I could not have put it more eloquently,” said Anselm, softening toward this man rapidly; the very kind of man he was fighting for, the kind he needed fighting for him. And still willing to do so, apparently, despite last night’s terrible misadventure. “I hope you will excuse my initial impatience, Jonah. Despite my own reluctant admiration for the author of last night’s spectacle, whoever he may be, I’ve much unpleasant business to attend to this morning because of it. It’s left me rather short of temper, I’m afraid. Might I hear this information you’ve mentioned to my doorkeeper?”

Jonah nodded sagely, as if he too had much to grapple with this morning. “I’ve also heard it said around, you’re lookin’ for a boy. … Andinol,” he clarified.

Anselm felt a prickling down his neck and back. “And?” he asked quietly.

“Not to be too bold,” said the man, “but, as you see, I’m a man in some difficulty, myself, an’ hoping, if I was to offer you some useful news about—”

“I would make it very worth your while, yes,” Anselm interjected, careful to maintain a respectful tone, but eager to speed them toward the suddenly riveting subject of this visit.

“Thank you, sir. I knew you was a man who cares about the troubles of us small folk. Yes I did, sir. So, I been right nearby the flooding, as I told you, an’ overheard some very odd talk down there, it seemed to me. Just before dawn. Some water folk I come upon was all abuzz  ’bout a boy nearly drowned down in the Saddle. Andinol, they said, just barely rescued by a riverine, if you’ll credit that. But here’s the really strange part, sir. They was sayin’ that riverine weren’t just passin’ by an’ feelin’ tender hearted. No, sir. They said as how she were summoned to his aid, by use of something made with power, an’ bearin’ the River King’s own sigil.”

Anslem had risen to stand open-mouthed by now.

“That’s what sent me straight to you, sir. I asked myself, who in the River King’s own household would have cause to compel a riverine to save some Andinol boy—an’ just that one lad, it seems, in spite of all the many others in such strife down there last night? Why’s one Andinol boy matter that much to such high folk, I asked?”

“Who were these riverines?” Anselm asked, half breathless with dreadful hope. “Can you give me any of their names?”

Jonah looked down, visibly discomfited for the first time since his arrival. “I guess I must’ve seemed too curious, sir. When they saw it, they all rolled into the water an’ swam off  ’fore I could ask more than what I’ve told you. Can’t say I’d recognize any of’em either.” He offered Anselm an abashed shrug. “Never had much traffic in water folk down there in the Saddle, sir…’fore last night, anyway.”

Anselm sighed. “I assume none of them happened to mention the Andinol boy’s name?”

Jonah shook his head. “But I did hear’em talk about Andinol soldiers come to fly him to hospital in one of their heliocopters—with an Andinol woman stuck in the flood there too. Happened down where Baker and Falmouth cross the Avenues, is what they said. If someone were to ask around about who got plucked up from there last night… Their kind keeps all sort of records on such things, don’t they?”

“Yes they do.” For the first time that morning, Anselm allowed himself to smile. “Whom else have you spoken with about this, Jonah?”

“No one, sir. Soon as I heard it, I started out to come right here an’ tell you. Haven’t said a thing to no one else. Don’t really want the River King’s henchmen after me if he’s got somethin’ to hide, sir.”

“That was wise. You’ll not regret choosing to bring this to me, however. I will guard your secret, and in just a moment we’ll go up to my office and discuss what can be done to ease your own current difficulties. First, however, I must dispatch someone to investigate this matter further. If you would be so kind as to step outside briefly, and ask my doorman to come in?”

“Very happy to. Thank you, sir.”

“No, thank you, Jonah. I’ll be out momentarily to rejoin you.”

Just after Jonah left the room, Syndaht entered and closed the door behind him.

“Have Shade Tree summoned immediately,” Anselm said. “Tell him that last night someone highly placed among the river folk—possibly royal—went to considerable trouble to save an Andinol boy from drowning in the Saddle, near where Baker and Falmouth crossed the flood. It seems a riverine was drawn to his aid by means of some device bearing the River King’s personal energetic sigil; a geist-stone, I would guess. Apparently, the boy was later flown by helicopter to one of the city’s hospitals—along with a young Andinol woman rescued at the same location. I want to know everything Shade can discover about who and where both of them are, where they live, who they know and care about, where they’ve been for the past ten years, what’s happened to them since last night, and whatever else he can learn. If the boy’s name turns out to be Matthew Rhymer—or anything similar—I want him brought to me immediately, alive and unharmed. I don’t care how, or at what cost. If he is someone else, just have him followed and watched. Tell Shade that none of his other duties are more important, and that I want his report as soon as it can be supplied without compromising the task itself. Tell no one else anything at all. I want as few people aware of this matter as possible.” 

“As you say, sir. And the man outside your doorway?”

“His name is Jonah, and he will be our honored guest here until at least tomorrow, possibly longer. He and I will be going to my office now for some further conversation. In half an hour, I want a guestroom prepared, along with a warm bath and a fresh set of clothes, the most appetizing meal we can provide on such short notice, and whatever other comforts he may request.”

With each sentence, Syndaht’s eyebrows had climbed farther.

“What I don’t want,” Anselm added, “is any reason, or opportunity, for him to leave this house until we know what we have hold of here. Understood?”

“Entirely, sir. I shall ensure that there is nowhere else he could possibly wish to be.”