“You will shoot?” Demir asked, laying his right hand flat against his chest. The captain’s eyes fell to Demir’s silic sigil and his shoulders slumped.
“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a guild-family member.”
“Demir Grappo, at your service. Summon the overseer, let him know that I am now sixteen percent owner in the glassworks. I’d like to take an immediate tour.”
The captain’s mouth hung open for several moments. “Uh … that’s … not possible.”
“My ownership? Or a tour?”
“The tour. Either. I mean…”
Demir knew that look in the captain’s eyes – a low-level functionary just trying to do his job, confronted with something he hadn’t expected. Was he allowed to tell Demir to piss off? Or would he bring shame on the entire guild-family if he did? He was flustered. Exactly where Demir wanted him.
Finally the captain said, “I’ll summon the overseer.”
“I’ll come with you. Baby, bring the carriage!” Demir threw an arm around the captain’s shoulders, pulling him through the gate and pretending to ignore the desperate way he motioned to one of the other enforcers to run on ahead. Once inside, Demir ran his eyes across the general layout of the place: halfway between a prison and a labor camp, it appeared to have one main road going through the center of the compound and another wrapping around just inside the wall. It was probably twenty acres, with dozens of buildings, each of them labeled with its function in large black letters.
Demir cast everything to memory. He never knew what information he might have need of, from how readily the enforcers carried their weapons to the width of the roads.
“Incredible,” he said. “I’ve only seen a few glassworks bigger, and I had no idea we had a forced labor camp just for siliceers. Amazing world!” He strolled to the nearest workshop, yanked open the door, and shoved his head inside. The workshop was hot, well-lit by high windows, and showed a row of men and women in heavy siliceer aprons and boots toiling at spartan-looking workbenches. A few glanced in his direction. The rest ignored him.
“Stop it! You can’t…” The captain clearly struggled to get control of himself as he tugged at Demir’s sleeve. “You shouldn’t do that. You need permission. Please, sir, wait until you’ve met the overseer.”
Demir remained long enough to make sure that Thessa was not one of the siliceers in the workshop before allowing himself to be dragged away from the door. He turned to the captain, grinning ear to ear. “You have no idea how exciting this is! I’ve owned small glassworks before but this is really something else.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “How do you keep them in line? Is that a problem? What if one gets violent?”
“Sir, please save your questions for the overseer.”
“Come now, I am part owner in this place and you will get to see me quite often from now on.”
The captain stifled a groan. “Sir…”
“Don’t worry about the overseer,” Demir said in a low voice, turning away from the other enforcers and slipping a thick stack of banknotes into the captain’s hand. “I’m generous to the people under my employ.”
The captain worked his jaw, staring down at the banknotes for a moment before hurriedly stuffing them in his pocket. He cleared his throat. “Ahem, um, no we really don’t have any problems with the prisoners. Most violent siliceers are treated like common criminals and punished in their own provinces. These are mostly debtors, thieves, foreigners. That sort of thing.”
“Is being a foreigner a crime these days?” Demir asked.
“Well, no. Depends on where they came from. We’ve got a couple of Grent siliceers that were caught trying to cross into Ossa when the war started. Then there’s the Balkani who got caught up in the revolution. You know, it’s–”
He was interrupted by shouting from across the complex. Demir turned to find a short, wiry man in a clean siliceer’s apron rushing toward him, waving his arms. “Get them out of here! What do you think you’re doing! This is a government site, restricted to the highest levels! The Assembly will hear about this!”
Demir met the shout with a grin and thrust out a hand. “Demir Grappo. The large man trying to extricate himself from the carriage is Baby Montego.” The overseer’s eyes grew wide at Demir’s name, then wider at Montego’s. Demir continued, “I am now sixteen percent owner of the glassworks and am here for my inaugural tour.”
The overseer reached him finally, staring warily at Demir’s outstretched hand. “I wasn’t notified of any of this.”
“That’s because I only took ownership at midnight last night.”
“I will have to check with the proper authorities,” the overseer huffed. “I can’t have just anyone traipsing about the complex!”
Demir sought to remember his name from the files Lechauri had sent him. “Filur, was it? Excellent name, by the way. I had a great-great-uncle by the name of Filur. Strong name. Manly name.” Demir clenched a fist and thrust it in front of him in pantomime of the flexing cudgelists sometimes did in front of the audience. “Baby! The paperwork!”
Montego came to Demir’s side and handed him a bundle of papers, which Demir then handed to Filur. He gave the overseer a full minute to read over them.
“As you can see, it all checks out,” Demir said proudly.
“This certainly seems official,” Filur said slowly, looking slightly ill.
“Filur, my friend, I have a really glassdamned busy life. I drove all the way up here for a tour. I’m a sixth of your owners and I have it on good authority that Ulina was one of the few owners who actually liked you. You want to make me happy, Filur.” It was all a fiction, of course, but in Demir’s experience most marginalized guild-family members were in constant terror of someone younger, more charming, better looking, or simply more convenient taking their spot.
Filur swallowed hard. “I see.”
“Here’s a thousand ozzo,” Demir said, thrusting the money into the pocket of Filur’s apron. “If for some reason my paperwork doesn’t check out, then you’ll have shown around a couple of famous tourists. If the paperwork does check out, you’ll have pleased one of your new overlords. Do you have wine?”
“I … uh, up in my office.”
“No need, I brought plenty. Baby, a bottle of wine for the overseer and the captain and then … a dozen bottles to the enforcers. Did we bring that wheel of stiarti? I’ve never met an enforcer who didn’t love cheese. Take it to their barracks.” He looked over the overseer’s shoulders, cementing his memories of this place. “Oh, and a few bottles of wine for the hired help. Laborers get thirsty too! Now then, my tour!”
Demir began walking, forcing the overseer to choose between restoring order as his enforcers mobbed Montego, or following him. The overseer followed him.
“How many furnaces?” he asked as Filur caught up.
“Uh,” Filur responded, clearly still quite out of sorts, “eleven. Well, twelve.”
“Twelve? Wonderful, I’d like to see them all.”
Filur blanched. “I can … show you nine of them, I suppose. They all look the same, I assure you.”
“What about the other three? I want to see what I’ve bought, Filur. I want to make sure this place isn’t going to burn down, fall down, or fall victim to the accidents and malfeasance that other glassworks have suffered recently.”
At the mention of malfeasance, Filur perked up. “Oh, that won’t happen here. We have thirty enforcers on the premises at all times! No one can get through that gate without my say-so. As for the other three furnaces, they are restricted. I really will have to get permission to show you those.”