The Street of Silk glittered with false promises as evening descended on King's Landing. Lorrick moved through the growing shadows, watching as men with heavy purses and light morals made their way toward the perfumed houses where pleasure could be bought for the right price. His eyes weren't on the brothels but on the men themselves, sizing up which ones might part with their coin most easily.
He'd spent the afternoon making a few coppers running messages between shops in the better parts of the city. Not enough for the medicine Tommen needed, but enough that he wouldn't be stealing from completely innocent men tonight. He preferred targets who wouldn't starve if relieved of a few coins.
"Little lordling thinks he's clever," came a voice from behind him.
Lorrick cursed under his breath before turning to face three men whose rough appearance marked them as the Street of Silk's unofficial tax collectors. He recognized their leader, a scar-faced brute called Harn, who collected protection money from the smaller establishments and independent girls who worked the street.
"Evening, Harn," Lorrick said, keeping his voice casual despite the hammering in his chest. "Fine night for business."
"That's what I'm thinking," Harn said, stepping closer. The two men with him spread out slightly, blocking potential escape routes. "And you're doing business on my street without paying your respects."
Lorrick spread his hands. "I'm just passing through. Not working the street."
"Don't lie to me, boy," Harn growled. "Been watching you all day, sizing up marks. You're working, which means you pay. Ten percent is fair, don't you think?"
"I would pay if I had anything worth taking," Lorrick said, allowing a hint of desperation into his voice. "Truth is, I haven't made a single copper today. Been trying since dawn, but it's been a shit day."
Harn glanced at his companions. "Hear that, boys? Poor Lorrick's had a bad day." His fist shot out, catching Lorrick in the stomach and doubling him over. "Guess your day's about to get worse."
Lorrick gasped for air, mind racing. Fighting three grown men wasn't an option, and running would only end with a knife in his back. That left talking or paying, and he had nothing to pay with.
"Wait," he wheezed, straightening up with effort. "I have something better than coin."
Harn paused, curiosity tempering his anger. "This ought to be good."
"Information," Lorrick said. "About a shipment coming in tomorrow that the Gold Cloaks don't know about." He was gambling now, inventing wildly, but he'd learned that men like Harn valued potential profit over immediate gratification.
"What shipment?" One of Harn's men asked, interest piqued despite himself.
"Arbor gold," Lorrick said, seizing on the man's interest. "Six casks coming in through the Mud Gate at dawn, hidden under turnips. No manifest, no taxes paid." He leaned in conspiratorially. "The merchant's one of Lord Baelish's competitors. Trying to undercut him."
This was the moment of truth. If they believed him, he might walk away intact. If not...
Harn studied him, eyes narrowed. "How'd a gutter rat like you come by this information?"
"Overheard it while cleaning the back room at The Broken Anchor. The merchant was drunk, bragging to his friends." Lorrick shrugged. "I'm giving it to you because I'd rather keep my teeth. What you do with it is your business, but six casks of Arbor gold? That's worth more than anything you'd get from me."
A tense silence followed as Harn considered. Lorrick kept his expression earnest, making sure his eyes didn't flick to the side or show any sign of deception. The art of the convincing lie wasn't in the details, his mother had taught him, but in the belief. If you half-believed your own lies, others would follow.
"If you're lying," Harn finally said, "I'll find you, and you'll wish the Gold Cloaks had taken you instead."
"Fair enough," Lorrick agreed readily. "But if it's true, maybe you remember I helped you next time we meet."
Harn snorted. "Maybe." He jerked his head at his men. "Let's go. Got preparations to make."
As they walked away, Lorrick exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his body. He'd have to avoid the Mud Gate for a few days, but Harn would likely blame the merchant for changing plans rather than assume Lorrick had lied.
"Quite the silver tongue you've got there."
Lorrick spun around to find a man leaning against a nearby wall, watching him with amusement. He was expensively dressed but in subdued colors, his beard neatly trimmed, his eyes sharp and assessing. Not a Gold Cloak or a lord, but someone with money and, more dangerously, intelligence.
"Don't know what you mean," Lorrick said cautiously.
The man chuckled. "Oh, I think you do. There's no shipment of Arbor gold, is there? But those three believe there is, which is quite a feat." He pushed off from the wall and approached, though keeping a respectful distance. "You managed to turn a beating into an opportunity for them. That's a rare talent."
Lorrick tensed, ready to run, but something told him this man wasn't a threat, at least not immediately. "Who are you?"
"My name wouldn't mean anything to you," the man said. "But I work for people who appreciate quick wits and quicker tongues." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, tossing it to Lorrick, who caught it reflexively.
The weight of it suggested silver, not copper.
"What's this for?" Lorrick asked suspiciously.
"Consider it an investment in potential," the man said. "And a payment for the entertainment. It's not often I see someone talk their way out of a situation like that."
Lorrick weighed the pouch in his hand. It felt like enough to buy Tommen's medicine and food for a week besides. Part of him wanted to throw it back, suspicious of charity that came with invisible strings, but Tommen's feverish face flashed in his mind.
"Thanks," he said simply, pocketing the pouch. "But I still don't know why."
The man smiled. "Let's just say I have an eye for talent. Perhaps we'll speak again when you're not so pressed for time." He glanced meaningfully in the direction of Flea Bottom. "Your sick friend won't get better while you stand here questioning good fortune."
A chill ran down Lorrick's spine. How did this stranger know about Tommen?
"I've been watching you longer than Harn has," the man said, answering the unspoken question. "Knowledge is valuable in this city, often more valuable than gold. Remember that." He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and when you speak to Marta the hedge witch, tell her Varys sent you. She'll give you the real medicine, not the watered-down cure she sells to most of Flea Bottom."
Before Lorrick could respond, the man slipped into the crowd and vanished among the evening revelers.
Varys. The name meant something, tickling at the edge of Lorrick's memory. One of the king's councillors, if the gossip was true. The Spider, some called him. The master of whispers.
Lorrick felt suddenly exposed, as if standing naked in the middle of the street. He'd drawn the attention of someone powerful, though whether that was good or disastrous remained to be seen. For now, though, he had silver in his pocket and a chance to save Tommen.
He hurried through the winding streets toward the eastern edge of the Street of Silk where Marta kept her small shop wedged between a tanner and a wine sink. The smell of herbs and less identifiable substances wafted from the open door as Lorrick approached.
The old woman glanced up from her workbench, eyes narrowing as she took in his Flea Bottom attire. "What do you want, boy? Don't waste my time if you've no coin."
"I need willow bark tea for a fever," Lorrick said, placing a silver stag on the counter. "And I'm told to say Varys sent me."
The change in the woman was immediate. Her back straightened, the dismissive look replaced by wary respect. Without a word, she went to the back of her shop and returned with a different pouch than the ones displayed on her shelves.
"Steep this in boiled water," she instructed, her tone now professional rather than contemptuous. "Three pinches, morning and night. If the fever hasn't broken after three days, come back."
She pushed his silver stag back toward him and handed him the pouch.
"But..." Lorrick began.
"It's paid for," she cut him off. "Now go. And boy," she added as he turned to leave, "be careful whose attention you catch in this city. Some notice can be profitable, but most will get you killed."
Lorrick nodded his understanding. As he made his way back to Flea Bottom, the small pouch of medicine clutched tightly in his hand, he contemplated the strange turn his day had taken. From thief to messenger to the notice of one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms, all in the space of a few hours.
The sun had set completely now, and the darker elements of King's Landing emerged from their daytime hiding places. Lorrick moved quickly but confidently through the shadows. Over the years, he'd learned that appearing afraid was far more dangerous than any alley or cutpurse. Fear marked you as prey.
As he neared the hideout, a group of drunken men stumbled past, one of them pointing and laughing.
"Looks like a proper little rat, don't he?" the man slurred. "Should stick him on a pike over the gate with the other traitors."
His companions laughed as they continued on their way, but Lorrick froze momentarily. Something had happened while he'd been gone. Executions, most likely. It wasn't uncommon in King's Landing, but public displays meant something political was brewing, and political meant dangerous for those at the bottom.
When he finally reached the hideout, Lorrick gave the signal knock and slipped inside once the plank was moved.
"Did you get it?" Jena asked immediately, her small face pinched with worry.
"I got it," Lorrick confirmed, producing the pouch of medicine. "How is he?"
"Worse," Weasel said bluntly from the corner where he sat beside Tommen's still form. "Hasn't woken properly since midday."
Lorrick immediately set about preparing the tea, sending Jena to fetch water from their small rain barrel. As he worked, he considered the day's events and what they might mean for his future. The attention of a man like Varys was... well uknown.
But for now, the only thing that mattered was bringing down Tommen's fever. Everything else, from Harn's threats to Varys's mysterious interest, could wait until morning.