Ash in the Mouth
The morning after the storm, Port Mire was a city washed clean and left to rot. The air, stripped of its usual dust and grime, smelled only of wet rope and the faint, bitter scent of ash from a doused cookfire. Puddles the color of rust stood in the cobblestone dips, and the sky remained a uniform, unforgiving grey. Finn surveyed the damage to his meager stock with a familiar sense of resignation. The brass fittings were tarnished, and a small bundle of dried herbs—his most profitable item—was a sodden, useless lump.
He was mentally calculating the lost earnings when a figure appeared in the alley's mouth, boots silent on the slick stones. It was Kael. He offered no greeting, only a quiet assessment of Finn's ruined goods. "Work," he said, the single word not an offer this time, but a statement of fact. "The kind that pays in silver, not copper."
The temptation was a sharp hook, but Finn's pride was sharper. To accept now, in a moment of clear desperation, would be to cede the terms of their arrangement before it even began. "I'm not a hired hand," he said, his voice flat as he began packing his salvageable items. He walked away from Kael, the weight of the unspoken offer heavy on his shoulders.
He needed a new angle, a safer trade route that didn't cross the territories of men like Roric. The city's arteries were marked with a silent language, a code of chalk marks and carved notches on posts that signaled safe passage, rival territory, or guard patrols to those who knew how to read them. Following a series of what he believed were neutral trader signs—a half-circle above a cross—he turned down a narrow lane he'd never used before.
The air shifted instantly. The distant noise of the market faded, replaced by an unnerving quiet. He'd made a mistake. The marks were misinformation, a trap for the unwary. Three figures detached themselves from the shadows of a doorway, blocking his path. Their clothes were ragged, but their eyes were sharp. "Lost, little merchant?" the leader asked, his voice a low growl. "There's a toll for using this street."
Finn kept his voice even, his hands open and away from his sides. He offered a cut of goods he didn't have, a bluff to buy time. As he spoke, one of the gang members squinted, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Wait. You're the one who cheated Roric at Borin's stall." He let out a short, harsh laugh. "Roric would pay double the toll to have you himself." He paused, then waved a dismissive hand. "Go on. Get out. But don't be so lucky next time."
Finn didn't need to be told twice. He backed away slowly, then turned and walked, not ran, out of the alley. The brief reprieve felt less like a victory and more like a debt postponed.