The morning light filtering through the grimy warehouse windows found Lutz already waiting. The chaotic energy that had followed the Shark killings had settled into a grim, businesslike rhythm. Today, it was Karl who approached him, a slip of paper in hand.
"Fischer," Karl said, his voice a low rasp. He didn't need to raise it anymore to get Lutz's attention. "Your tasks." He handed over the paper.
Lutz scanned the list, his mind already categorizing each item.
Market Square. Security collection (3 shops). Take Finn with you.
Gallowsmarket. Fence the attached inventory with Silas.
Weekly Quota: 5 Shields (independent acquisition).
Rusty Nail Tavern. Ears open. Loenish naval chatter.
It was a concise summary of his new life. Intelligence, coercion, fencing, and theft. The unspoken command was clear: get it done. The significant detail was the lack of micromanagement. How he accomplished this by day's end was his problem.
"The Sea Serpent's sister ship docked at dawn," Karl added, a subtle test. "See if the captain's loose-lipped about their new inspection routes. The Baron dislikes surprises."
Lutz simply nodded, tucking the paper into his pocket. This was the trust he had earned with blood. Not trust in his character, but trust in his competence. He was a tool that required less supervision.
"Understood."
He found Finn, a lanky, nervous young Viper with more enthusiasm than sense, sharpening a knife by the main door. "We're on collections," Lutz said, his tone leaving no room for discussion. Finn scrambled to his feet, eager for any assignment that wasn't moving crates.
"Is it true you took down two Sharks?" Finn asked.
"Mostly, it's true I have a fantastic talent for being the right man in the wrong place. It looks like bravery from a distance."
Their first stop was the market square.
'The city of Indaw Harbor. Where the air is free, and everything else costs you your soul.' Lutz thought depressingly.
The routine was established now. Lutz would enter the shop—a baker, a candlemaker, a cooper—with Finn looming behind him. He'd offer a polite, almost apologetic smile.
"Morning. Here for the weekly contribution," he'd say, his voice calm.
The shopkeepers, once terrified, now just looked resigned. They'd hand over the coins—a few Shields, sometimes a handful of Pfenninge—with a weary nod. The transaction was quick, clean. There were no more pleas, no more tears. Lutz was a predictable, professional symptom of doing business in Indaw Harbor. He was part of the city's taxes. As they left the cooper's shop, the man even muttered a sullen, "See you next week."
Finn, disappointed by the lack of drama, kicked a pebble. "Boring."
"Boring is good," Lutz replied, counting the coins into a small pouch. "Boring means nobody gets hurt. It means we get to go home."
It was a lie, of course. There was no "home." But it was the kind of thing a senior enforcer might say to a junior one, and Finn seemed to buy it, puffing out his chest slightly. Lutz felt a strange twist in his gut. He was learning to wear this authority, and the fit was becoming disturbingly comfortable.
Leaving Finn at the warehouse gate with a curt instruction to stow the collection pouch, Lutz moved on alone. The second task required a lighter touch. He navigated the maze of alleys to the Gallowsmarket, the air thickening with the scent of stolen spices and unspoken deals. He found Silas the fence in his usual nook, a recessed doorway shaded by a faded awning.
Silas was a man who looked like a dried-out riverbed, all cracks and sharp angles. He eyed Lutz without warmth but with a new degree of recognition. Lutz slid the small, heavy bundle of silk scarves across the makeshift counter of an upturned crate.
"From the Windward shipment," Lutz said quietly.
Silas unwrapped the bundle, his fingers, stained with ink and dirt, tracing the fine fabric. He didn't haggle with the desperation of before.
"The market is weak. Eight Shields." Silas grunted.
"Eight? For this quality? At that price, I might as well just give it to the city watch and save us all the trouble." Lutz was not having it.
"Ten Shields," he said, a statement, not an offer.
"Fifteen," Lutz countered, his voice flat. "The Loenish customs are tightening. Intisian silk will be harder to come by. The price is going up."
Silas's eyes narrowed, assessing him. This was new information, a sliver of the intelligence he was meant to gather, now being weaponized for profit. A flicker of respect crossed the fence's face. He grunted, counted out fifteen silver Shields, and swept the scarves away. "Tell Karl the market is changing."
"I will," Lutz said, pocketing the coins. He had not only completed the task but improved its yield. The Baron would note that.
He turned to his quota. The petty theft was almost an afterthought. He drifted into the main market, his senses sharp. He wasn't a predator hunting, but a gardener harvesting ripe fruit. A merchant boasting loudly about a sale, his coin purse bulging and unattended. A well-dressed woman distracted by a street performer. It was over in minutes. His fingers, guided by Lutz's ingrained muscle memory, did the work. The weight in his pocket was more than five Shields. He was exceeding expectations without breaking a sweat.
The last thing was eavesdropping Loenish naval chatter, but there was a problem, Lutz was originally a street urchin with little to no education, he barely knew feysac, let alone loenese or even ancient feysac, so he was going to do what he knew the most, study the tongues of the world.
He wanted to check out the newspapers, but before, Lutz made a deliberate detour through the library's stacks. He wasn't just there for the news of the day; he was there to sharpen his primary weapon: language.
He found the section on linguistics and regional studies, a dusty, neglected corner. Running his finger along the spines, he pulled out a well-worn volume: A Loenish Grammar and Common Phrases for the Feysac Merchant. It was a practical, unglamorous text. He carried it to his chosen carrel, the weight of it familiar and comforting.
For the next hour, he did not read about gods or politics. He immersed himself in verb conjugations and regional slang. He mouthed the sounds silently, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Inspection." "Manifest." "Harbor fees." "Customs office." He focused on the vocabulary of trade and bureaucracy, the very words he was most likely to overhear in the dockside taverns.
This was the core of his effectiveness. Andrei's innate talent for languages provided the foundation, but it was Lutz's pragmatic focus that directed it. He wasn't learning Loenish poetry; he was learning to decipher the grumbles of a drunk sailor, to pick out the valuable slivers of information from the background noise of complaint. Every irregular verb he committed to memory was another tool for survival, another way to make himself indispensable to the Vipers by turning the careless words of their enemies into a strategic advantage.
Satisfied with his review, he closed the grammar book. The political newspapers could wait. He had first ensured he would understand them—and every whispered conversation in the Rusty Nail—with perfect clarity. Only then did he turn to the headlines, his mind already primed to analyze the world they described.
He picked up the Indaw Courier and a more strident Loenish paper, the Backlund Bulletin. He found a secluded carrel and began to read, Andrei's hunger for knowledge finally given a purpose.
The Bulletin was practically gloating. "Feysac Adrift! A Nation Mourns a God, Questions a Future Without War!" The article spewed vitriol, painting Feysac as a hobbled giant, its spiritual core—the God of Combat—shattered by the Evernight Goddess. It speculated on Loen's economic advantage, the shifting political tides.
The Courier was more restrained, but the anxiety was palpable. Op-eds debated the future: should Feysac seek a new patron deity? Could the God of Steam and Machinery, already influential, fill the void? The phrase "period of national adjustment" was used, a flimsy veil over a crisis of faith and identity. The official line was grim determination, but the subtext was sheer panic. The entire foundation of Feysac's culture and power had been kicked out from under it.
'Grim determination' is a fancy way of saying 'we're panicking, but we're doing it with a stiff upper lip.' Lutz thought jokingly.
Lutz sat back, the print blurring before his eyes. He wasn't just reading news; he was understanding the pressure cooker he was trapped in. A nation feeling vulnerable was a dangerous nation. A gang operating within it would be more ruthless, more paranoid, more desperate to secure its power. The Baron's ambition wasn't happening in a vacuum. It was a symptom of a larger sickness.
Later, Lutz arrived at the Rusty Nail Tavern. Even at this early hour, it was dim and hazy with pipe smoke, smelling of stale beer and salt. The clientele was a mix of dockworkers grabbing a pint before their shift and off-duty sailors sleeping off the previous night.
Lutz didn't sit at the bar. He found a small, shadowed table in a corner, ordering a cheap ale he had no intention of finishing. He became a part of the furniture, sipping slowly, his posture slack, but his ears sharp. This was where Karl's instruction—"Loenish naval chatter"—came to life.
He didn't have to wait long. A group of three sailors, their Loenish accents sharp against the guttural Feysac common tongue, slumped into a booth nearby. They were complaining loudly, their voices slurry with drink and self-pity.
"—a full day's delay!" one grumbled, slamming his tankard on the table. "And for what? Some clerk from the bloody Customs office going over the manifest with a magnifying glass."
"Not just Customs," another countered, lowering his voice slightly. "Had a bloke in a Steam Church pin asking questions too. Wanted to know if we'd seen 'unregistered mechanical parts' near the southern ports. Like I'm his bloody scout."
The third sailor shook his head. "It's the new orders. Since what happened to their god, the Feysac are jumpy. Loen's putting on pressure, and the Church is sniffing for any advantage. Makes everything a damn headache."
Lutz sat motionless, committing every word to memory. Increased Loenish customs inspections. The Church of Steam and Machinery actively hunting for contraband technology. The political tension affecting trade routes. It was a perfect, concise summary of the geopolitical situation, delivered by unwitting messengers.
"The customs inspectors are all bastards!" A sailor shouted.
'Ah, the universal language of maritime discontent. Poetic.' Lutz jokingly described the ambience.
He finished his ale, the bitter taste a small price for the valuable intelligence. He had what he needed. As he stood to leave, he caught the barkeep's eye and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It was a signal. The Vipers owned the silence in this tavern, and the barkeep was paid to ensure that sailors with loose tongues kept talking, and that Lutz could always get a quiet table.
He left the tavern, the information churning in his mind. He didn't return directly to the warehouse. Instead, he walked. He observed the city with new eyes. He saw the increased number of priests from the Church of Steam and Machinery, their presence more assertive. He saw the grim set of the soldiers' jaws, a defensive pride in the face of whispered humiliation. The death of a god wasn't just a headline; it was a chill in the air, a tension in the cobblestones themselves. The priest of steam were preaching about the technological advancement.
'He talks about the 'inevitability of progress' like it's a good thing. I've seen progress. It usually involves someone getting crushed.' Lutz said introspecting into his modern knowledge.
He returned to the Vipers' warehouse as dusk began to settle.
He found Karl not in the office, but by a crate near the side door, inspecting a newly delivered shipment of what looked like black-market tools. The Baron's Spark's eyes flicked up as Lutz approached, the usual banked coals of his gaze taking in Lutz's unhurried demeanor.
"Report," Karl said, his voice flat.
Lutz handed over the heavy pouch of coins from the collections and the fence. "Silas says the price of Intisian silk is going up. Loenish customs are tightening. He paid fifteen Shields."
Karl's fingers stilled on a crowbar. A slight nod. He appreciated efficiency, but a better profit margin was a language he truly understood. "And the rest?"
"The Sea Serpent's sister ship docked this morning. The crew at the Rusty Nail were complaining. Loenish inspections are longer, more thorough. They're looking for any excuse to levy fines. And…" Lutz paused, ensuring he had Karl's full attention. "The Church of Steam had agents questioning them too. Asking about 'unregistered mechanical parts' near the southern ports."
This was the real prize. Karl's head tilted, his focus sharpening. This wasn't just gossip; it was intelligence on the movements of a major power and the dominant church. It told him where the pressure points were, where the shadows were deepest for the Vipers to operate.
"The Steamers are getting bold," Karl murmured, more to himself than to Lutz. He looked back at him, a long, assessing look. "You understand the value of this?"
"It means the Church is nervous. Or looking for an advantage. Either way, it changes the board," Lutz said, repeating the kind of analytical phrasing he'd heard Karl use.
A ghost of a smile, cold and approving, touched Karl's lips. "The board is always changing. Most men only see the pieces. You're starting to see the game."
"Wonderful. It's a depressing game with terrible players and the stakes are my life. Can I forfeit?" Lutz said self-deprecatingly.
He turned back to the crate. "Get some food. The Baron will want to hear this."
The dismissal was clear. As Lutz walked towards the mess area, the weight of the day's work lifted, replaced by a different, more complex weight. Karl's words weren't praise; they were an acknowledgment of a rising asset. He was no longer just a pair of hands. He was becoming a set of eyes and ears. And in an information war, that made him more valuable, and more dangerous, than any muscle-bound enforcer.
The mess hall was a cacophony of rough laughter and the clatter of tin bowls. The smell of thick stew and cheap beer filled the air. As Lutz entered, the usual buzz didn't die, but it shifted. A few men glanced his way, not with hostility, but with a quiet acknowledgment. The story of the Gray Sharks had solidified his place.
He collected his portion and scanned the room. His eyes landed on Henrik, the older viper, eating alone at the end of a table. It was as close to an invitation as he was likely to get. Lutz walked over and sat down across from him.
Henrik didn't look up from his stew. "Heard you had a productive day," he grunted around a mouthful of bread.
"Earned my keep," Lutz replied, taking a bite of his own food. It was a neutral, safe response.
Henrik finally glanced up, his eyes, old and sharp, studying Lutz. "Karl looked... pleased. That's a rare sight. More rare than a honest politician." He took a slow drink of his beer. "Just remember, boy. The higher you climb in this shit pile, the farther you have to fall. And the Baron don't like people looking at his view for too long."
It was a warning, but not a threatening one. It was a veteran's advice. Lutz gave a slow nod. "I'm just trying to keep my head down and shovel."
A dry, rasping sound that might have been a laugh escaped Henrik. "Aye. Well, your shovel's getting shinier. People notice that too." He returned to his meal, the conversation clearly over.
Later, as Lutz lay in his bunk, the warehouse settling into the groans and whispers of night, Henrik's words echoed. He was climbing. He had a system, a routine, a measure of freedom. He was turning his intelligence into a weapon the Vipers valued.
But the freedom was an illusion, a longer leash on a stronger chain. Every useful piece of information, every successfully completed task, only forged another link. He was making himself indispensable to his captors. The path to escape wasn't becoming a better slave; it was finding the key to the lock while pretending to polish the chains.
'Loyalty here is just the fear of what happens if you leave. It's not a virtue, it's a hostage situation with better company.' Lutz introspected.
He closed his eyes, the faces from the newspaper—anxious politicians, stern priests—swimming in his vision. They were all players on a board he was only just beginning to see.