Lutz's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat masked by his calm exterior. Finch looked up, his expression a mixture of surprise and guarded interest. The bodyguard by the door shifted his weight, a silent reminder of the stakes.
"The broadsheets?" Finch repeated, his Loenish accent crisp. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him. "I was unaware my humble proposals had garnered such attention. Please, join me. I detest drinking alone."
Humble proposals. Lutz almost smiled. Right. The ones about monopolizing shipping lanes. So humble. He took the seat, arranging his new clothes with a feigned nervousness. "Thank you, sir. I am Elias Vogler." He used the name Karl had provided, a minor Feysac noble name with just enough weight to be plausible.
"A reader of the financial pages, Mr. Vogler?" Finch asked, pouring a glass of wine without offering any to Lutz. A small power play. "An unusual interest for a young man."
And an unusual amount of perfume for a merchant, Lutz thought, catching a strong whiff of cologne. Trying to cover up the smell of desperation, are we?
Outwardly, he offered a self-deprecating smile. "One must find opportunity where one can, Mr. Finch. My family's circumstances… well, let's just say recent events have necessitated a more practical turn of mind." He let the sentence hang, implying a fall from grace that would explain his presence in a mid-tier tavern. "Your venture speaks of a man who understands the new realities. Bypassing the old, sclerotic channels."
Finch's eyes gleamed. He loved being called a visionary. "The old ways are indeed slow to drown," he said, taking a sip of wine. "But the water is rising. A man must swim." He studied Lutz. "The Voglers… from the northern holdings, yes? A great shame, what happened."
Lutz's blood ran cold for a second. This was a test. Karl's background was supposed to be bulletproof. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "A shame best not discussed in public, sir. But yes. It leaves one… adrift. And keenly interested in those who are building new ships."
It was the perfect response. Vague enough to be safe, but confirming enough to satisfy Finch's suspicion. The merchant nodded, a look of understanding passing over his face. He saw a kindred spirit—another man displaced by Feysac's turmoil, looking to profit from the chaos.
"Adrift men can often find the best currents, Mr. Vogler," Finch said, his tone now more congenial. "Tell me, what do you know about the current… inclinations… of the harbor master's office? I find the official statements to be less than illuminating."
And so it begins, Lutz thought. He's not just sounding me out; he's already trying to use me. He took a deliberate sip of his terrible tea, using the moment to choose his words. The first hook was set. Now he had to pull the line.
"The harbor master," Lutz said, meeting Finch's gaze, "is a man who appreciates stability above all else. And these days, stability has a very specific price."
Lutz allowed a carefully calculated moment of hesitation, letting Finch lean in with anticipation. "The harbor master is a cautious man," he began, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "Officially, his hands are tied by Loenish pressure and Steam Church... scrutiny." He paused, letting the names of the two major powers hang in the air. "But unofficially? He is a pragmatist. He knows Feysac needs trade to survive, especially now. The challenge isn't the law; it's finding partners who can be... discreet."
He was saying nothing of substance, but weaving a tapestry of implied knowledge and access. He was painting a picture of a world where the real business happened in shadows, a world he, Elias Vogler, could supposedly navigate.
Finch's eyes narrowed with keen interest. "Discretion is a commodity I value highly. It seems you have a perceptive eye for the true mechanics of this city, Mr. Vogler."
No, Lutz thought, I just have a good ear for what greedy men want to hear. Outwardly, he offered a modest shrug. "When one is adrift, one learns to read the currents and the hidden rocks. It is a necessary skill."
"Indeed," Finch mused, swirling the wine in his glass. "And what of the local... constabulary? Are they as pragmatic as the harbor master?" The question was a clear probe into the viability of operating outside the law, a question no legitimate merchant would ask so bluntly.
This was the critical moment. Lutz couldn't appear too eager, nor too ignorant. He leaned back, feigning mild distaste. "The city watch is a blunt instrument. They are best managed by those who understand that their attention, like light, can be directed... or avoided altogether." He was subtly pointing Finch toward the concept of the underworld without naming it, implying he had the knowledge to bypass official interference entirely.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Finch's face. He had found his man. Or so he thought. "You are a most intriguing young man, Elias. I should like to continue our conversation. I am hosting a small gathering tomorrow evening at my lodgings. A few... like-minded individuals. I think you would find it illuminating."
The invitation was the ultimate success. He was being invited into the inner circle.
"That is most kind," Lutz said, injecting just the right amount of grateful enthusiasm into his tone. "I would be honored."
"Excellent," Finch said, scribbling an address on a scrap of paper. "Until then."
Lutz took the paper, his fingers steady. He made his excuses and left The Gilded Quill, the cool air outside feeling like a reprieve. The first act was over.
As he walked, the cynical narration resumed in his mind. Well, that was horrifyingly successful. I just convinced a wealthy man that I'm a corrupt, well-connected aristocrat. I suppose when the Vipers are done with me, I can have a brilliant career in politics.
He had the address. He had the merchant's trust. Now, he had to report back to Karl and prepare for an evening party where the stakes would be even higher, and the knives—both literal and social—would be much sharper.
The next day, evening
The address led Lutz to a well-kept townhouse in a quiet lane on the edge of the merchant quarter. It was not opulent, but it spoke of solid, discreet wealth. As he approached the polished oak door, he smoothed down his waistcoat, the fabric already feeling less like a costume and more like a suit of armor.
Alright, Elias, he thought, steeling himself. Time to see if you can swim with the sharks without getting your new trousers bitten.
A stern-faced servant opened the door, ushering him into a hallway filled with the low murmur of conversation and the scent of beeswax and port. The gathering was small, perhaps a dozen men clustered in small groups in a tastefully appointed sitting room. Alistair Finch spotted him immediately, his face breaking into a welcoming smile.
"Elias! My boy, you came!" Finch boomed, crossing the room to clasp his arm. He subtly guided Lutz away from the others, his voice dropping. "A few select associates. Men of vision, like ourselves." His eyes scanned Lutz approvingly. "You clean up well. It suits you."
It suits the lie, Lutz corrected inwardly. I just hope it doesn't end up being my burial shroud. Outwardly, he offered a grateful smile. "Thank you for the invitation, sir. It is a privilege."
Finch began making introductions. There was a ship captain with a permanent squint, a nervous-looking man who supplied timber to the navy, and then, the man Finch seemed most eager for him to meet.
"Elias, this is Mr. Korbinian Hass. He represents a consortium of... investors, with a keen interest in the flow of goods through the harbor."
Korbinian Hass was a lean, sharp-faced man in his fifties, dressed in a severely cut black coat. His handshake was dry and firm, his eyes the color of flint. They held no warmth, only a penetrating assessment. Lutz knew instantly: this was one of the "wrong people."
"A pleasure, Mr. Vogler," Hass said, his voice quiet but precise. "Alistair speaks highly of your... perspective. Your family hailed from the northern holdings, I understand? A beautiful, if troubled, region."
It was another test, more pointed than Finch's. Hass was probing, looking for a crack in the story.
"Troubled is a gentle word for it, Mr. Hass," Lutz replied, layering his tone with a hint of well-bred sorrow. "Beauty often masks a difficult reality. It teaches one to appreciate stability wherever it can be found." He deftly turned the conversation. "I understand you are in the business of creating stability, in your own way."
Hass's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I am in the business of ensuring worthwhile ventures reach their potential. Stability is a fortunate byproduct." His gaze was unnerving. "You seem very young to have such a worldly understanding of harbor politics."
The challenge was clear. Lutz met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "When the world you knew collapses around you, Mr. Hass, you are forced to grow up rather quickly. Age becomes less relevant than acumen."
For a long moment, Hass simply stared. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "A fair point. Acumen is indeed the true currency." He turned slightly away, a clear dismissal, but Lutz felt the man's attention remain on him for the rest of the evening like a cold spot in the room.
The party continued. Lutz circulated, making polite, empty conversation, all the while listening, always listening. He heard snippets about "regulatory delays," "special arrangements," and "off-the-books inspections." He was gathering the pieces of the puzzle.
As the evening drew to a close, Finch drew him aside again, his breath smelling sweetly of port. "Elias, a word. Hass is a cautious man, but he was impressed. We all are. To solidify this partnership, we need to demonstrate our... capability. A small matter. A rival, a minor dockmaster, is proving difficult. He needs a persuasive argument to see the benefits of cooperation."
'The dockmaster in our payroll!?' Lutz thought
Lutz's blood ran cold. This was it. The test. They weren't just asking for information; they were asking him to get his hands dirty.
Finch smiled, mistaking his silence for thoughtfulness. "Nothing crude, of course. Perhaps you have a contact who could... explain the new realities to him? A show of force, to prove our collective reach."
A show of force. They were asking "Elias Vogler" to summon the Vipers. The problem was, that it was to take out someone from the Vipers.
Lutz forced a confident smile. "I understand completely, Mr. Finch. I know just the people to deliver such a... nuanced message. Consider it handled."
He left the townhouse, the cool night air doing little to calm the frantic racing of his mind. The con was working perfectly. He had gained their trust, identified the key player, and now had a direct task.
But the cost of success was a terrifying dilemma: how could he possibly satisfy Finch's demand without betraying the very gang that had sent him there in the first place? The walls of his deception were closing in.
The cobblestones felt unsteady beneath Lutz's feet as he walked away from Finch's townhouse, the genteel glow of its windows a stark contrast to the cold knot tightening in his gut. The port-soaked air of the docks, usually a stench, now smelled like simple, honest reality.
Wonderful. I've successfully convinced a room full of sharks that I'm a bigger shark, and now they want me to prove it by eating one of my own. Finch's request was a logical next step in the con, a test of "Elias Vogler's" underworld connections. But the target—a dockmaster disruptive to Finch's plans—was almost certainly a man who kicked back a percentage of his earnings to the Harbor Vipers. Attacking him would be like setting fire to the Baron's own warehouse to prove you're a good arsonist.
He couldn't do it. But he couldn't refuse, either. His entire value, his fragile survival, hinged on delivering a result.
Alright, think. You're a cheat. This is just another con. The product isn't a stolen ledger or a quieted shopkeeper; it's the appearance of a result. Finch didn't want a body; he wanted a demonstration of power. He wanted fear. And fear, Lutz had learned, was often a product of theater.
A plan began to form, fragile and audacious. It required misdirection, a carefully controlled performance, and a deep, dangerous understanding of how both sides—Finch's consortium and the Vipers—thought. He needed to stage a show where everyone saw what they expected to see, and no one got hurt. Well, no one important.
He quickened his pace, heading not for the warehouse, but for a different part of the docks, a specific tavern where a certain grizzled Viper was known to drink away the aches of his profession. He needed Gerhart. Not for his fists, but for his face. The plan was taking shape, a desperate lie woven from equal parts insight and bluff.
He had a performance to direct.
The tavern Gerhart favored was called The Leaky Bucket, a name that promised more charm than it delivered. It was a place of low ceilings, sawdust on the floor, and conversations that were little more than guttural exchanges. Lutz's new clothes felt like a beacon as he stepped inside, drawing a few narrowed eyes from the patrons. He spotted Gerhart immediately, sitting alone in a corner, methodically working through a tankard of dark ale.
Gerhart looked up as Lutz approached, his one good eye—the other still swollen and purple from the Shark fight—registering no surprise, only a flat assessment. He took in the waistcoat, the haircut, the clean-shaven face.
"Look at you," Gerhart grunted, not inviting him to sit. "Smell like a whorehouse and look like a lawyer. What do you want?"
"I need to talk to Karl," Lutz said, keeping his voice low. "It's urgent. The merchant took the bait."
"So go talk to him. He's at the warehouse."
"It's not that simple." Lutz leaned forward, his hands on the sticky table. "The merchant gave me a test. He wants us to lean on one of our own dockmasters. A man named Hagan, on the west quay."
That got a reaction. Gerhart's jaw tightened. "Hagan? He's one of ours. Pays his dues on time. What's the play, then, Elias? Gonna have us break our own legs to prove a point?"
"No," Lutz said, the plan crystallizing as he spoke. "We're going to give them a show. A public argument. You and Rudel. You confront Hagan tomorrow, around midday, near his crane. Make it loud. Shove him around. Threaten him. But you leave him standing. No broken bones, no real damage. Just enough theater for Finch's man to see and report back."
Gerhart stared at him for a long moment, then let out a short, harsh bark of laughter that had a few heads turning. "You've got nerve, Fischer. I'll give you that. Stage a fight? For an audience?" He took a long swallow of ale. "Karl's gonna love this. Or he's gonna feed you to the harbor crabs." He pushed himself to his feet. "Alright, pretty boy. Let's go see the Spark. This should be interesting."
As Lutz followed Gerhart out into the night, he felt a sliver of grim satisfaction. The first move had been made. He was no longer just playing a part; he was now directing the players.