21. Warehouse

Davin Roe’s warehouse stayed busy from first light until closing. More than twenty workers passed through it every day, carrying, stacking, dragging, tying, unloading, and shifting cargo from one section to another. When Alistair first took the position, he feared that so many coworkers would make clone switching harder. In practice, the crowd helped. There were too many men moving at once, too many loads changing hands, and too many shouted instructions for anyone to watch one Worker too closely unless he gave them a reason.

The place was crowded rather than relaxed. Men grumbled as they worked, cursed at bent nails and rough rope, and learned quickly which people were worth helping and which were not.

“Lift the back, you ox. You want to spill the whole thing?”

“I’m lifting. You’re the one walking like your boots are nailed down.”

“Stop whining and move. Mern’s looking.”

That last part always seemed to do the trick. Mern, the warehouse manager, had no subtlety, but he was effective. He had a permanent look of irritation, and he carried a ledger under one arm as if it belonged there. He watched the entrances, counted hands, checked loads, and barked at anyone who looked idle for more than a few breaths. With so many workers to track, however, he could not notice every small absence. That gave Alistair’s Worker clone brief openings when he needed them, usually disguised as a trip to relieve himself, fetch water, or carry something to a different section. Worker would step out of sight, switch places with another body, and return before the gap became meaningful.

Risk remained. A worker might turn a corner at the wrong time, or Mern might decide to reassign men faster than expected. Even then, the situation would likely stay manageable. At worst, the wrong body would be seen in the wrong place and get snapped at for wasting time. Seeing two Alistairs at once would be disastrous, but that never happened. The outgoing clone would vanish a heartbeat before the bodies crossed paths. Shared awareness made that sort of timing unnaturally precise.

The warehouse layout helped as well. The place was divided by function and by the kinds of goods passing through each area. Workers were moved around constantly to help where labor was heaviest, which meant most men only had a rough idea of where everyone else was at any given moment. The disorder gave Alistair exactly what he needed. With the disguise holding and the work itself no longer a problem, he could focus on his real purpose there: getting closer to Roe, learning how the man’s business actually worked, and finding an opening to dig deeper.

For more than a week, he hauled, listened, and watched before he finally saw Davin Roe properly.

The man looked exactly like someone who belonged near ledgers, contracts, and expensive cargo rather than among sweating laborers. He was perhaps in his forties, lean, with a neat beard, dark hair touched with a little gray, and clothes simple in cut but made from better cloth than anyone else in the building wore. He moved calmly, and never hurried. Even his hands looked careful. He did not say much, but when he did, men listened quickly. More telling than any of that was the way he looked at the warehouse. He did not simply inspect it. He weighed it. Crates, workers, doors, delays. Worker recognized immediately that Roe belonged to a more dangerous kind of wealthy man, one who knew his business closely.

Roe had come in that day with a particular cargo, and the moment Alistair saw the extra caution around it, he understood it was important. Unfortunately, Roe was careful and experienced enough to keep interesting things away from common hands. Only trusted workers were assigned to that load, and none of the handling happened in the open. Instead, Roe had them move it through a large section of the warehouse that was always kept locked.

Alistair had never seen that section opened before. He had assumed it was an office, an archive room, or some administrative corner of the building. Instead, once the heavy door swung open, he caught enough of the interior to realize the space went much deeper than he had assumed. It was a full private storage section hidden inside the warehouse, with room to hold a serious amount of cargo, and Roe clearly reserved it for goods he did not want mixed with the ordinary flow of business.

While Worker kept hauling, a plan formed in Alistair’s shared awareness.

As closing approached, Alistair created a small abnormality no one recognized for what it was. Work started moving a little more smoothly across the warehouse. A crate that should have taken longer to shift was already in place. A stack that usually needed four men somehow stood done before the next complaint had even finished. Nothing dramatic happened, only small improvements here and there. That helped because the workers were used to slowing their own pace whenever the day threatened to end too efficiently. Finishing early earned only more work. It was only rewarded with more work. So when the labor started flowing too well, the men adjusted on instinct, dragging their feet just enough to protect themselves.

“Slow down,” one man muttered while helping with a rope-wrapped crate. “You want Mern finding another stack for us?”

“I want to go home with my arms still attached.”

“Then work like you’re tired, not eager.”

At closing, Worker left with the others as he always did. Mern stood by the way out, checking men off in his ledger and making sure every paid hand who had entered the warehouse also left before the place was closed. He claimed it was for wage records, and technically that was true, but anyone paying attention would know it was more than bookkeeping. The warehouse held goods too valuable to leave uncounted.

After the last worker passed inspection, Mern closed the gate and handed the keys over to the evening watcher. Someone always watched the warehouse.

Inside the dark warehouse, hidden bodies began to stir.

Four of them.

The plan had a cost. Half the clone duration had already been spent during the workday, leaving him only about an hour to move once the building was sealed. He had to make it enough.

He moved quickly. One body headed for Roe’s private section. Another slipped into the office to fetch a shardlamp. The remaining two spread out to keep watch and be ready if he found more than expected. Under the dim lamp, Escapee bent over the lock to Roe’s private section and began working.

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This lock was far better than the others he had dealt with before.

For a few minutes, Alistair wondered whether he would have to take drastic measures. Slip Bind showed him weaknesses, but the mechanism was complex enough that exploiting them still took time. Perhaps too much time. He kept his breathing controlled through the clone and forced himself not to rush. Then, finally, the mechanism gave. A quiet click came, the metal yielded slightly under the picks, and the door opened.

All four clones went in.

The section was larger than he had guessed, almost a second warehouse tucked inside the first. It was cleaner than the rest, less cluttered, and more tightly organized. The ordinary sections carried the rough disorder of constant work: open crates, spilled straw, rope ends, handcarts, and whatever else men left behind during a long day. Roe’s section was different. The stacks were tighter. The aisles were organized with almost excessive care. Much of it was covered.

A smaller locked side room sat in the far corner.

While Escapee moved to deal with that second lock, one of the other clones began checking the covered cargo in the main section. The clone approached slowly, several possibilities moving through Alistair’s mind. He doubted Roe would store slaves here. Even men in that trade had limits of convenience, and Roe did not seem stupid enough to store human cargo carelessly among ordinary goods. So he expected illegal goods, something rare, expensive, or dangerous.

He pulled back the covering from one stack and found sacks.

At first, that was all he saw. Just well-made sacks in good condition, tightly sealed and neatly stacked. He crouched and started checking them for a tear, a weak stitch, any small flaw that would let him inspect the contents without ruining more than necessary. The stitching held with frustrating care. Roe, or whoever packed this cargo, did not leave much to chance. After several sacks, he finally found one faulty seam and worked it open.