I returned to the street where I had first met the vendor, a rucksack slung over my shoulder from the warehouse. My right hand gripped the Threaded Cane—not because I intended to use it, but because it was the only weapon that wouldn't draw suspicion. To everyone else, it was just a cane.
Unlike the earlier crowds, the streets were now eerily empty. All the more reason I was grateful for Justice's Shades, which kept me from being deceived, and for Light Trick, which made me appear half a foot to the right of where I actually stood. It wasn't much, but if someone tried to have me killed, better safe than sorry. I was also ready to summon my furry little friend if it came to that.
The vendor leaned casually against his cart, smoking the same cigarette he had sampled earlier. His eyes swept over my new clothes, and with an approving huff he gestured for me to follow. We wove through several alleyways, leaving the docks behind. Warehouses gave way to residential houses. Finally, he turned into an alley that looked like a dead end, where a man stood guard. The vendor—Bran, as I had learned on our walk—whispered something to the guard, who waved us through. At the alley's end, Bran ushered me through a door before closing it behind us.
We were inside a pub. The air was thick with sweat and beer. Bran led me past the patrons to the counter, where he whispered something to the bartender. Without hesitation, the man directed us upstairs.
"You want to make backroom deals in Dunwall without the guard breathing down your neck? This is where you come: the Blistering Barnacle," Bran explained as we climbed the stairs. "It's neutral ground, recognized by the gangs, and the owner has friends in high places to keep it that way."
He stopped in front of the second door on the left.
"I'm sure you know this already, but be on your best behaviour. The people inside are temperamental even on their good days, and I'd rather not see you fed to the rats."
I nodded, and we entered a conference room. A long table stood at its centre, four people seated opposite me, with several bodyguards standing behind them.
"Ah, you must be the new aspiring trader Bran mentioned," said the man at the head of the table, puffing on a pipe. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, with a neatly trimmed handlebar moustache, short hair, and a brown leather jacket over a white shirt. "You're younger than I expected."
"No need to be rude, dear. Bran did say he looked young," said the woman beside him. She wore a masquerade mask, her brown hair tied in a bun, and her refined clothing suggested noble or wealthy merchant origins.
The third man sat silently, studying me with sharp eyes before giving a single nod. Like the woman, he wore a mask and fine clothes.
Finally, the fourth man spoke.
"I hope my clothes are to your liking."
I froze. It was Archibald—the shopkeeper. Instinctively, I stepped back, but Bran steadied me with a hand on my shoulder and an encouraging nod.
The gesture did not go unnoticed.
"I see you've already met Mr. Archibald," the pipe-smoking man remarked.
"Of course he has," Archibald said, his tone now stripped of the flamboyance he had shown earlier. "I asked the other vendors not to serve him until he visited my shop."
"You wanted me to visit your shop?" I asked.
"Yes. Unlike my associates, I wanted to take your measure before we met properly."
"So why the spectacle? Was having your girls practically molest me really necessary?"
"It distracted you from the fact they were searching you for identifying marks and contraband," he replied with a smirk. "Don't take it personally. We've had several infiltrators posing as merchants, only to be spies from rival gangs. Besides—you looked like you were enjoying it."
The worst part was that, according to the Shades, he was telling the truth.
"Perhaps we can get this meeting underway. Some of us have busy schedules," the third man interjected, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit."
I did, and a bodyguard took drink orders: tea for the third man, wine for Archibald and the lady, beer for the pipe-smoker. He then turned to me.
"Anything for you, sir?"
"Tea is fine," I said.
When he left, the pipe-smoker introduced himself.
"My name is Charles Miller. I lead the Gutter Rats gang. Smuggling is our main profit, though we maintain some legitimate ventures as well. These three are not only my benefactors, but also my partners. Madame Red here has ties to trade guilds across the empire, providing us with inside knowledge of supply and demand. Her husband, Mister Blue, has friends in the city guard who ensure our activities go unnoticed. And finally, Mr. Archibald—whose family ties run deep into prominent houses—employs a network of spies. He is our eyes and ears in places few dare to look."
He gestured to each of them as he spoke, pipe smoke curling lazily in the air.
Taking the cue, I introduced myself.
"My name is Eivor Maxwell. I came from a country called the Holland. Most of my cargo was lost when my ship sank. For now, I want to sell what I have left and establish a shop until I can restock."
The quartet murmured in affirmation before Madame Red spoke.
"Bran showed us a sample of your cigarettes. How much do you have at the moment?"
I opened my rucksack and laid out 25 boxes.
"May I?" she asked, sliding one across the table. She opened it, examined the contents, then passed it around. They spent several minutes whispering and tallying figures, even after the drinks arrived. Madame Red scribbled notes in her book, calculating profits.
At last, she smiled at me.
"Well, Mr. Anders, these are high-quality cigarettes. You could make a small fortune. So—how do you want to sell them?"
I wasn't surprised. In the modern world these would be cheap, but here they might as well be premium imports.
"How much do cigarettes of this quality usually sell for?" I asked.
"There aren't any cigarettes of similar quality," Archibald scoffed. "Not in Dunwall. The highest I've seen went for 100 gold per cigarette—and they don't compare to yours."
I considered it carefully.
"How much gold would it take to secure a house and a shop?"
"Depends where," Madame Red drawled. "You can't afford the financial district, so your best bet is near the docks or…" She paused. "The old waterfront."
Bran tensed.
"Are you sure? That district hasn't recovered since the rat plague. He'd get little business," Charles objected.
"Which is precisely why it's perfect," Madame Red countered. "The houses are dirt cheap, the property I have in mind is near the estate district for wealthier customers, and close enough to guard patrols to deter petty crooks."
"And the cost?" I asked warily.
Madame Red chuckled. "A little too steep for you. But I'm willing to loan you the money—for certain concessions."
"Which are?"
"First pick from your wares before they hit the shelves. Many of my friends collect exotic goods, and you seem to hail from a place unknown to other merchants. That gives you access to treasures we've never seen." Her grin widened. "And, of course, exclusive rights to your cigarettes and other luxury imports."
"How long would it take to secure more goods?" Charles asked.
"Around a month, depending on the weather. My homeland is unpredictable. I'm among the first from there to arrive here." I lied smoothly.
"Then it's settled," Charles said. "You'll occupy that property and sell what you have. But remember—our help depends on you holding up your end. Fail us, and our next meeting won't be so pleasant." His tone was warning enough. These were hardened criminals. If I became useless, they'd dump my body in an alley.
The rest of the meeting was spent haggling over price splits and logistics. After over an hour, Madame Red and Mr. Blue stood to leave.
"Before I forget—Bran mentioned you also sell other items. Any chance you brought one?" Mr. Blue asked.
I nodded and held up the Threaded Cane. Pressing a hidden button, I slammed the tip against the floor. The grinding of metal drew alarm from the quartet and their entourage. In an instant, the cane transformed into serrated barbs, unraveling into a whip.
Madame Red and Charles groaned.
"Now look what you've done," she muttered.
Confused, I glanced at Mr. Blue—whose eyes were wide with fascination. He lunged, wresting the cane from me and cradling it like treasure. Questions tumbled from him faster than I could answer.
A weapons fanatic, apparently. He offered me 2,000 gold for it—twice the price of a quality sword. I accepted without hesitation. They also advanced me payment for the cigarettes, enough to rent a room at a nearby inn.
Bran promised to lead me to my new house in the morning.
That night, lying in bed, I opened the system to check for updates.
Threaded Cane sold
+500 +300 SC
New feats acquired
"An offer you could have refused" — Establish a working relationship with a gang. +3 silver random tickets.
"Yay!!! Baby's First Sale" — Make your first trade. +2 bronze item tickets. +2000 SC.
Five more tickets and finally some credits. The system had skimmed 200 SC as a penalty, but I still had 2000 SC to spend as I wished.
Already, I was planning to implement modern comforts in my new house: plumbing, a pizza oven, a proper bed. I could even buy more cigarettes outside the system to ensure the Gutter Rats' continued support.
I decided to wait until I reached my new shop to redeem my tickets and drifted off to sleep, thinking of the days to come.