Karl listened in utter silence. He stood by the small, grimy window of the warehouse office, back turned, as Lutz laid out the problem and his proposed solution. Gerhart leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, a silent, skeptical witness.
When Lutz finished, the only sound was the distant clang of the harbor. Karl did not turn around.
"So," Karl said, his voice soft as smoke. "Finch and this Hass… they wish to see our fangs. But they have pointed the fangs at our own throat." He finally turned, his eyes like chips of coal in the lamplight. "And you propose we bite ourselves, but gently. For show."
"The dockmaster, Hagan, doesn't get hurt," Lutz reiterated, holding Karl's gaze. "His operation isn't touched. But Finch's man sees the Vipers are not to be crossed. It makes 'Elias Vogler' look powerful. It gets us deeper into their circle."
"It's a risk," Gerhart grunted. "Hagan's a proud bastard. He might not play along."
"He will if the Baron orders it," Karl said, his decision made. He looked at Lutz with a new, unsettling intensity. "It's a clever play, Fischer. Devious. You think like a strategist, not a thug." The compliment was colder than any insult. "But if this performance falters, if Hagan gets truly angry or Finch's man sees through it, the fallout will be… precise. And it will land on you."
"I understand," Lutz said.
"Good." Karl's lips twitched. "Then let's put on a show. Gerhart, fetch Rudel. And find a reason to be near the west quay crane tomorrow at noon. A good reason. We are always reasonable."
The next day, Lutz positioned himself on the upper floor of a chandlery that overlooked the west quay. He wore his old clothes again, invisible in the midday bustle. From his vantage point, he could see the hulking cargo crane and the steady flow of dockworkers. He also spotted Finch's man—a lean figure trying too hard to look casual while leaning against a stack of crates.
Right on time, Gerhart and Rudel appeared, marching with purpose toward Dockmaster Hagan, who was barking orders near the crane's base. The script was beginning.
"Hagan!" Gerhart's voice carried across the quay, loud and aggressive. "We need to have a word about your memory! It seems to be failing when it comes to your obligations!"
Hagan, a bull-necked man with a face like a clenched fist, turned, his expression shifting from irritation to defiance. This was the moment of truth. Would he follow the unseen orders?
"I paid what I owe, Gerhart," Hagan shot back, his voice equally loud. "I don't have time for your games."
"This ain't a game!" Rudel snarled, stepping forward to shove Hagan hard in the chest.
The dockmaster stumbled back, his face flushing with real anger. For a heart-stopping second, Lutz thought the man would forget the plan and swing. But Hagan just glared, chest heaving. "You touch me again, Rudel, and you'll be fishing your teeth out of the harbor."
"Is that a threat?" Gerhart laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. He closed the distance, getting right in Hagan's face. The performance was perfect—a public, humiliating confrontation. Gerhart's voice dropped, but the menace was a palpable force. "You're making things difficult for important people, Hagan. You need to learn your place. Or we'll find a dockmaster who knows it."
He gave Hagan one last, contemptuous shove, then jerked his head at Rudel. The two Vipers turned and strode away, leaving Hagan standing there, fuming and humiliated in front of his men. The entire exchange had lasted less than a minute.
Lutz's eyes darted to Finch's observer. The man was already slipping away from the crates, a satisfied look on his face. The message had been received. The show was a success.
And cut, Lutz thought, a wave of cold relief washing over him. The audience is pleased. Let's hope the lead actor doesn't decide to rewrite the ending later.
He waited a few minutes before leaving the chandlery. As he merged back into the foot traffic, he saw Gerhart and Rudel waiting in a shadowed alley mouth.
"Well?" Gerhart grunted.
"He bought it," Lutz said. "He left right after."
Rudel spat on the ground. "Hagan's gonna be a problem. He won't forget that."
"He'll remember who signs his orders," Gerhart said, but he looked uneasy. The plan had worked, but it had created a new, internal tension. A tool had been used to strike another tool, and both were now damaged.
That evening, Lutz returned to The Gilded Quill. He didn't have to wait long. Alistair Finch swept in, his face alight with triumph. He clapped Lutz on the shoulder, a gesture of familiar ownership.
"Elias! My boy!" he beamed, sliding into the seat opposite. "A masterstroke! My associate witnessed the entire affair. He said the Vipers were… most persuasive. It seems your contacts are as effective as you promised." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hass is impressed. We are moving forward. There is a shipment. A special one. It arrives in three days' time."
Lutz kept his expression neutral, a polite smile on his face. Inside, his mind was racing. This was it. The real prize.
"I'm glad I could be of service," Lutz said smoothly. "What is the nature of this shipment?"
Finch waved a dismissive hand. "Details later. For now, know that you have proven your worth. The next step is to ensure its smooth passage. Hass will have further instructions." He signaled for a bottle of expensive wine, a celebration. "To new partnerships, Elias! To the future!"
Lutz raised the glass that was placed before him. To the future, he thought, the wine tasting like ash. A future built on a stage play, for an audience of snakes.
The "celebration" was a tense affair. Finch drank with the unburdened joy of a man who believes he's just bought himself an army. Lutz sipped his wine, each drop a bitter reminder of the precipice he was on. The merchant's glee was a boulder balanced on a spiderweb of lies.
"Three days," Finch repeated, his cheeks flushed. "A new era for Indaw Harbor begins then. And you, my boy, will have a front-row seat." He leaned in, his breath sweet with wine. "Hass will contact you. Be ready. He's a man of... specific instructions."
I bet he is, Lutz thought. Probably delivers them engraved on a shiv. Outwardly, he simply nodded. "I look forward to it."
He extricated himself as soon as it was polite, pleading a prior engagement—a fictional meeting with his "disgraced" family's solicitor. The cool night air was a baptism. He needed to report to Karl, but more than that, he needed to think. The "special shipment" was the core of it all. He had to find out what it was before he handed the information over. Knowledge was the only leverage he had in this game between predators.
Instead of heading straight back to the warehouse, he turned his steps toward the one place that offered a semblance of clarity: the public library. It was closed at this hour, its grand doors locked, but he found a stone bench in the small square opposite. Sitting in the quiet dark, he replayed Finch's words. Special shipment. Three days. Hass's instructions.
His mind, sharpened by a week of constant deception, began to pick at the threads. Why was Hass, a representative of a "consortium," so deeply involved in the mechanics of a single shipment? This wasn't just about profit; it was about something specific. Something that needed to bypass not only customs but the Vipers' own network.
He thought of the political landscape—Feysac's spiritual void, the Steam Church's rising influence, the Loenish pressure. A "special shipment" in such times could be anything: forbidden religious artifacts, proscribed technologies, even political fugitives. The Church of Steam was "sniffing for unregistered mechanical parts." Was that a coincidence?
Alright, Finch, he mused, staring at the dark library windows. What are you and your "investors" so desperate to bring ashore? And why does it require a puppet like me?
A plan began to form, dangerous and simple. He couldn't wait for Hass's instructions. He had to force the issue, to get a glimpse of the cargo before the game moved to its next, irrevocable stage. He needed to become more than a messenger; he needed to become a spy within the conspiracy itself.
He stood up, the decision solidifying into cold resolve. He would report the "success" of the staged fight and the mention of the shipment to Karl. But he would omit his own suspicions. He would ask for leeway, for trust to pursue the details on his own terms. It was a huge risk. Karl valued control above all else. But Lutz's value was his ability to operate in the gray domain where Rudel's fists and Gerhart's threats were useless.
He arrived at the warehouse to find Karl waiting, as if sensing the shift in the currents.
"The merchant was pleased," Lutz reported, standing before the desk. "The performance was convincing. He mentioned a special shipment arriving in three days. His associate, Hass, will provide details."
Karl's coal-like eyes studied him. "And?"
Lutz chose his next words with the care of a man defusing a bomb. "I believe simply waiting for Hass's instructions is a passive strategy. It gives them all the control. If I can... encourage Finch to be more forthcoming, to show me the cargo manifests or the point of entry, we would know exactly what we are dealing with before they make their move."
He held his breath. He was asking for autonomy. In the Viper's nest, that was a request often met with suspicion.
Karl was silent for a long moment, his fingers steepled. "Encourage him how?"
"Flattery. Greed. The promise of even greater influence once this is done," Lutz said. "The tools I used to get in. I can use them to dig deeper."
A slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Do it," Karl said, his voice low. "But Fischer, the line between digging a deeper hole and burying yourself is very thin. Do not cross it."
The permission was granted. The leash was lengthened, but the collar remained. Lutz left the office, the weight of the new task settling on his shoulders. He was no longer just a pawn. He had volunteered to become a knight, moving on a diagonal into the heart of the enemy's game. The next move was his. He had three days to uncover the truth before the "special shipment" arrived and changed the harbor forever.
The next two days were a study in controlled tension. Lutz, as Elias Vogler, met with Finch twice more. Each meeting was a delicate dance of feigned enthusiasm and subtle probing. He spoke of "future ventures" and "expanding their influence," painting a glittering future that hinged on the success of this first, crucial shipment. Finch, bloated with self-importance, lapped it up. But on the subject of the shipment's contents, he remained uncharacteristically vague, a sign he was under strict orders from Hass.
"The less you know, the safer you are, my boy!" Finch chuckled, clapping Lutz on the back. "Hass handles the particulars. Our job is to ensure the path is clear."
Your job is to be the useful idiot, Lutz corrected silently. And my job is to be the idiot behind the idiot. The frustration was a slow burn. He was running out of time and diplomatic avenues.
The breakthrough came from an unexpected direction: Finch's vanity. On the evening before the shipment's arrival, Lutz found the merchant at The Gilded Quill, preening over a new, ostentatious ring.
"A small token from Hass," Finch boasted, flashing the jewel. "A sign of his confidence in our partnership."
It was the opening Lutz needed. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's magnificent, sir. But... forgive me for saying... it's a token for a messenger. When this is over, the world should see you not as Hass's associate, but as his equal. The public face of the new order in Indaw Harbor." He let the flattery hang in the air, then applied the pressure. "To do that, you must own this victory. Not just facilitate it. You should be there, at the docks, when the shipment is secured. To show you are a man of action, not just words."
Finch's eyes widened, then gleamed with avaricious ambition. The idea of usurping Hass's credit was clearly a potent fantasy. "Be there? But... the risk..."
"Is minimal," Lutz pressed, the final piece of his gamble falling into place. "With the Vipers in your pocket? The dockmaster compliant? You will be perfectly safe. It would be a powerful statement. One Hass could not ignore."
He saw the moment Finch's caution was overwhelmed by his greed. "By the Gods, Elias... you're right. A statement." He puffed out his chest. "I will be there. Midnight, at the old grain silo on the west quay. That's the transfer point."
Lutz felt a cold thrill of success. He had it. The time and the place. He had just manipulated the manipulator.
And there it is, he thought, the vanity of a fool is the key to every well-locked secret. Now I just have to figure out what we're all showing up to see.
He excused himself and walked into the night, his mind already racing ahead to midnight. He had the location. Now he had to decide his final move: would he simply report it to Karl, letting the Vipers handle the interception? Or would he be there himself, to see the truth with his own eyes? The first was safer. The second was what a man who wanted real leverage would do.
The game was entering its final act, and Lutz was no longer content to just read the script.