The Economy Can Wait

The Middle Ring had its own way of waking up.

Even before the first light, the metallic clatter of the automaton horses pulling rental carriages already roused the factory workers. Fortunate enough not to live amid the stench of rotten fish and waste from the Outer Ring, they still had to fight through their exhausting daily shifts in the textile mills and metalworks owned by Castra Devana’s great industrialists.

Thanatos and Sallustia walked side by side, unhurried, against the flow of the crowd rushing to start their pre-dawn shifts. They followed an avenue whose uneven pavement demanded attention, and at each intersection, a whirlwind of bad-tempered voices from sleep-deprived people filled the air.

They didn’t speak much.

Sallustia couldn’t hide her sour mood. She would have preferred to fulfill her duty as a bodyguard by accompanying Daniel, even if only to watch over him. Here, beside the fool, she felt out of place.

She kept her cloak tight around her shoulders, and beneath the hood her eyes scanned the alleys and rooftops of the Smoke District. The two of them followed a path the Convergence’s informants claimed led to the old manor now serving as the clandestine establishment known as The Maiden and the Staff.

“You march as if we were on a battlefield” Thanatos mocked, exaggerating the stiff gait of an old soldier —or a man who had soiled himself. “The tavern isn’t going anywhere.”

“I should be with Grace…” she stopped, silently cursing herself for letting the name slip. “…with Fidenzio. He needs a guard.”

“With Grace?” Thanatos asked, his tone oddly free of malice. “Who’s Grace?”

“Lord de Lio” she corrected coldly. “I’m tired. Misspoke.”

He accepted the excuse with a brief nod. For a moment, he abandoned his usual mockery.

“You take your promises seriously. Rare in this city. Maybe not for you, given your position, but today I’m the one who needs you. And we have orders to follow…”

Sallustia’s scowl eased slightly.

“Then don’t give me reason to regret it.”

The Maiden and the Staff had once been the residence of a wealthy provincial aristocrat. The iron gate, sagging under its own weight, still bore rusted arabesques. The crest carved on the cornice had been filed down almost to nothing; over it, someone had painted the silhouette of a plump woman holding a staff and scrawled the name of the less-than-friendly establishment. The ground-floor windows were shuttered with warped slats, leaking hints of yellow lamplight, pipe smoke, and moving shadows.

Inside, the marble floor had been covered with worn planks. Threadbare rugs tried and failed to muffle footsteps. The high ceiling bore cracks, from which gas chandeliers hung, copper pipes exposed along the walls. Former limestone columns now served as partitions between rooms.

On one side, gaming tables and dice; on the other, alcoves with heavy curtains and high-backed chairs for discreet conversations. The smell was a mixture of cheap wine, anise, fried lard, and sugary perfume.

Attendants crossed the hall with wooden trays. Men and women in simple clothes, patched leather aprons, and quick hands. Two side doors led to inner courtyards. The old staircase with carved balusters rose to a mezzanine where rented rooms had replaced the house’s original chambers.

“Perfect place” Thanatos clicked his tongue approvingly. “The tavern is full of ears, and I’m very good at charming them.”

“I’m not interested in the ears. Only in what they have to say” Sallustia muttered.

“As long as you know what to ask and pay the price…” the fool chuckled. “There are informants for every taste. Best of all, no strings of old loyalties attached.”

Fidenzio had ordered this task for the two of them, while Gupta and Lais — the clever magus the group had rescued from the Sand-Knowers at the Warlock’s Crypt — worked the Senatorial Ring. The plan was simple in theory: listen and confirm the information.

Prebito’s hands were dirty in the Middle Ring too. No one rigged an election without knowing where the money was laundered.

The first contact was set.

A middle-aged man sat beside a pillar, smelling faintly of black pepper. Giuseppe Camole, spice and sundry merchant, dealing with warehouses at the port, brothel kitchens, and caravans across the Grand Continent.

He had a long face, sun and dust-marked skin. Black, wavy hair receded at the temples. He wore a brown cotton coat, pinstriped vest, linen shirt yellowing at the collar, and on his hands two bronze rings with dull stones. His fingers bore turmeric and saffron stains.

While Camole spoke to the barkeep, Sallustia noticed his thumb always ran along the rim of his mug, as if scraping off the excess. Habit of a man who always skimmed a little for himself.

Thanatos approached with the same light steps he used on stage and gave the merchant a short bow. Sallustia stayed two steps behind.

“Master Camole” the fool said, a quiet smile in his words, “they say your nose can find the way to a good nutmeg even in the dark.”

Giuseppe laughed, not at the joke but at the recognition. The performer had a familiar face.

“And they say your tongue can slip in and out of places far tastier than this one.”

Feigning flattery, Thanatos bowed again, this time politely removing his hat.

“What do you want?” the merchant pressed, sipping his drink.

“A chat about prices, freight… and friendships.” Thanatos pointed to the empty seat beside him at the bar. “I’ll buy the next round. What do you say?”

Giuseppe agreed.

They were served a wine with a sharp taste and a tray of olives and bread as accompaniment. The merchant chewed slowly, eyes scanning the room before answering any question. His voice was low and rough, but not hesitant.

“What exactly are you after, master Thanatos?”

“I know you’re no doctor, but I came to talk about health. How are the guilds breathing in these troubled times? There’s an election coming, and I hear too many hands are dipping into the coffers. Even the ones full of coins. And certain hands wear gloves with famous crests.”

Giuseppe ran his tongue over his teeth and spat an olive pit onto the floor.

“In the Middle Ring, every merchant family has its own meeting hall like an altar. In that sense, it’s more like the churches of the Orthodoxy than any clinic, if you’ll forgive the metaphor. Lately, donations have been flowing into the lots, along with promises of protection and lower trade taxes. All very clean. And very expensive.”

“From whom?” Sallustia asked bluntly.

She noticed, impatiently, when Giuseppe exchanged glances with the fool, and the performer, ever the peacemaker, signaled with a mocking gesture that he could speak openly. She understood Thanatos was playing his part, but she was already losing patience with the chatter.

Allania, in this regard, had always been better suited. She never said a word out of place that could compromise her master.

“From the Swords, through people with no official names” the merchant replied, staring at the paladin with some curiosity. “Messengers who never sign anything. But everyone whispers one name: Mave Lestat. She comes and goes from the houses with full permission and signs transport contracts crossing all the rings. No one knows exactly where she came from, but today she dines with the most powerful industrialists and frequents mansions in the Senatorial Ring.”

“And what do they get in return?” Thanatos pressed, still delicately.

“Cover during inspections, priority at the docks, ‘volunteer’ militiamen escorting their wagons to the districts and beyond. Not to mention promises, of course” Giuseppe squinted. “Promises that if the Swords win, the guilds will have first pick of new trade routes.”

Sallustia studied the man. His voice held caution, but no lies.

“The kind of corruption that grows from within” Thanatos mused, loosening his collar theatrically, “like a sick man who only realizes it when he loses his taste for food. And the price for speaking to me?”

Giuseppe smiled faintly.

“You’re the great Thanatos, aren’t you? Next time, come to my warehouse and recite a few dirty poems for the dockhands. And bring me a document signed by Senator Pisca or Lord Juncuso worth more than tavern gossip. I need protection for my next shipment. New people are demanding tolls, and I won’t pay until I know where the customs bribes will stand after this cursed election.”

“Done” the fool said, shaking his hand. “The dirty poetry is the most expensive part.”

Giuseppe laughed and gave them one more piece of information as a tip.

“Mave’s house uses rented wagons from the Outer Ring to disguise her routes. If you want to see what she’s smuggling, follow the supply contracts. Always too much feed for a family that buys more automaton horses from the industrialists than they ever use from the old cart-drivers in the Marut District.”

He stood, adjusted his coat, and left with a nod. Sallustia watched him go, noting when he joined two brutes smoking and trading loud jokes.

The kind of men who asked questions with closed fists. Useful to someone like Giuseppe Camole.

The hall grew louder.

A gambling table erupted in shouts when a die rolled off the edge. A woman in a half-sheer dress carrying a tray of beer mugs vanished behind a curtain. Upstairs, doors opened and closed with dull thuds. Gas pipes hissed intermittently like sighs.

The place was alive.

“Next?” Sallustia asked.

“A man of faith” Thanatos revealed, irony dripping from his tongue.