6
On the next day's trip over the bridge into Spadros, Paix sat in the wagon beside the chattering trainees quartered on the island.
Something had been bothering him for a while now.
People were smuggled into Bridges, not out. Financial refugees from Dickens, criminals fleeing an Azimoff death mark, indentured servants from Nitivali. But in. Not out.
Whores who didn't like Bridges might sell themselves to a recruiter from Chicago, but as they said, that was business. And the Romani didn't trade in children ‒ in fact, trying to sell them one might be more likely to end with your throat cut.
This was Yuletide, the busiest travel time of the year, and passenger flights both ways had been booked for months. The chance of this Deuce Kiga or one of his bounty hunters getting into Bridges du
