Tristan scratched his chin and considered her for a long moment. “The building was a law office called Slack & Roberts. We’ve been watching them for the last six months. We have reason to believe that they’ve been throwing cases for certain highborn families, instead of defending their clients. Occasionally the lawyers pass evidence to the prosecution. Sometimes they even help fabricate it.”
Lila said nothing, annoyed with Tristan’s conspiracy theories, knowing any response might inspire more of his nonsense. Highborns dealt with criminals found on their families’ properties. After an arrest, the family militia handed the accused to Bullstow for trial and filed the necessary paperwork for the judge. The trial was usually a brief affair, given the level of surveillance on most highborn estates. If found guilty, the accused compensated the family by relinquishing their mark for the duration of their sentence. The family could then use the prisoner as a slave until their term concluded. If the family had no use for a slave, the mark could be sold to another family at auction.
Marks could also be purchased directly from the government, for Bullstow held the marks of those caught breaking laws on public property as well as on lowborn and workborn property. Most slaves were bought by mining or agricultural families who used the cheap labor to run their farms, ranches, vineyards, fisheries, and meat-processing plants, spreading the slaves among the servant class who worked the same jobs for pay. Even the Randolphs used prisoners, the bulk of which were sent to their manufacturing plants just outside of New Bristol or their oil platforms and refineries along the Costa Sur.
“Why would a highborn family do such a thing, Tristan?”
“Why does your kind do anything? Money, of course. The Wilson-Kruger family has done it at least a half-dozen times in the last few months, maybe more. They pick a group of innocents off the streets, frame them, then petition the court for longer sentences—”
“I find that hard to believe. They don’t even have enough work for their own family. They certainly don’t need any extra hands.”
“Of course not, but they could certainly use the extra money from selling a few marks. Chairwoman Wilson has even done it to members of her own family. She’s desperate for funds.”
“Tristan, there’s not that much money to be made in selling marks.” Slave labor didn’t fetch all that high of a price—after all, the slaves became a dependent of the family, forcing the highborns to clothe and feed them, not to mention cover the cost of their healthcare tax. They also required extra militia to ensure they did not harm the other workers. It could be even more expensive if a slave died under highborn care.
Yes, it was cheaper than using contracted workborn, but only just. The only real perk was having a steady stream of workers who either did the job offered or faced the hangman’s noose. Tristan had been correct: the country had a need for cheap, captive labor.
“It doesn’t matter if there’s not much money in it,” Tristan said. “Maybe Chairwoman Wilson doesn’t need that much money to begin with. I’m guessing some of the cases are to get rid of undesirables or threats to her family. Sending someone to the mines for twenty years is a slow, quiet death sentence.”
“The Wilsons don’t have mines.”
“They auction people off to those who do.”
“How do you even know this? I can’t see you paying for the information. You don’t care if the highborn sell one another for profit.”
Tristan grinned. “No, I don’t. The highborn can take care of themselves.”
“Is that what you thought when you detonated the bomb? ‘It’s not my fault if one of them dies. The highborn can take care of themselves’? How many highborn would have had to die to make you regret it?”
“There was a fire truck ready and waiting, and Bullstow has a clinic on site.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “No one got hurt. Not permanently, anyway.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Tristan only shrugged.
“If I had died, would you have regretted it?”
“You didn’t.”
Lila shook her head. “I gave you too much credit. Killing people doesn’t bother you. Then again, you don’t see the highborn as people. You have much more in common with some highborn than you think.”
Tristan did not answer her.
“You admit to pulling the alarm? So you’d have a fire truck standing by just in case?”
“No. It just seemed like a good omen. Look, I did you a favor, chief. Bullstow thinks that the woman who broke in last night was part of the AAS. No one has a clue who you really are or what you were doing inside, and no one will ever look at you as a suspect.”
“There’s a sketch of me. A bad one, but it’s out there now.”
Tristan tugged at his scarf. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Wrong. I can’t trust you to handle it. I can’t trust you with anything. What were you thinking? What do you think the prime minister will do about a bomb exploding so close to Bullstow? What in the world did you think this would solve?”
“It wasn’t supposed to solve anything. The problem is too big for that. But at least my kind will have one less place they’ll get screwed over in this city. Bullstow will investigate, but it won’t be a high priority. No one died. It was just a few singed eyebrows near a lowborn—”
“It’s terrorism,” she insisted. “I’m to turn you over to Chief Shaw, did you know that?”
“So you’ll just do as you’re told?”