A week had passed since Lutz first transmigrated into this unknown world and skin.
The frantic terror of his first days had faded, replaced by the grinding predictability of survival. He moved through his duties with an efficiency that was starting to feel automatic, the sharp edges of his new life worn slightly smooth by repetition.
His days developed a rhythm. The morning briefing with Karl was now a quick, professional exchange. The lists were longer, the trust implicit.
"Three collections in the market," Karl would say, handing him the slip of paper. "The usual faces. Then, the Sailor's Rest. Listen for talk about customs inspections at Pritz Harbor. Rumor is the Loenish are getting aggressive. And your quota."
Lutz would simply nod. "Understood."
He had expanded his petty theft beyond the markets. He'd identified the schedules of the richer clerks who worked for the harbor master, learning which taverns they frequented and when their coin purses were fattest after payday. It was no longer just survival; it was a craft he was honing. He'd even, on a dare from a surprisingly chatty Finn, managed to lift a silver cigar case from a merchant during a crowded street festival, a feat that had earned him a round of grudging, albeit quiet, respect from the other Vipers.
But his true sanctuary, the activity that felt most like his own, remained the Indaw Public Library. Every other afternoon, after his tasks were complete, he would lose himself in the hushed, paper-scented silence.
He had devoured the basic texts on the Feysac language, moving from grammar to political pamphlets and local histories. He now possessed the formal mastery of a well-educated citizen, able to understand the nuanced threats in the Baron's pronouncements and the subtle lies in the city's newspapers. More importantly, he was approaching fluency in Loenese. He practiced by reading Loenese novels he found in a dusty corner, their melodramatic plots a strange counterpoint to his own life. He could now overhear conversations in the Rusty Nail not just as disjointed words, but as complete sentences, grasping the context and the unspoken fears between the lines.
It was during one of these sessions, buried in a dense economic treatise on Loenish trade tariffs, that a shadow fell over his page. He looked up, expecting a librarian. Instead, he found Karl standing there, his presence seeming to suck the quiet out of the room.
"Didn't take you for a scholar," Karl said, his voice a low murmur that still seemed too loud for the hallowed space. His eyes scanned the book's title, then flicked back to Lutz.
"Knowledge is a currency," Lutz replied, repeating a phrase he'd heard Karl use. He kept his tone neutral, but his heart beat a little faster. This felt like an intrusion.
"A dangerous one, in the wrong hands." Karl pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, the motion unnervingly graceful. He leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "The Baron has a job. More delicate than strong-arming shopkeepers."
Lutz closed the book slowly. "What kind of job?"
"There's a merchant. Loenish. New to the city. He's looking to secure... exclusive shipping rights for certain goods through the harbor. He's bypassing the official channels. Talking to the wrong people."
"And the Baron wants him to talk to the right people," Lutz finished.
Karl's lips twitched in something almost like a smile. "The Baron wants to know who the wrong people are. This merchant, Alistair Finch, is cautious. He has bodyguards. He won't be intimidated by Gerhart's face or Rudel's fists. He's the kind of man who responds to... polish. To someone who speaks his language." Karl's gaze was intent. "Both literally and figuratively."
This was the "more important mission" Karl had alluded to. It was a test, far more dangerous than any street brawl.
"What's the play?" Lutz asked.
"You're a young Feysac intellectual," Karl said, outlining the plan with cold precision. "From a minor, disgraced noble family, seeking new opportunities. You'll frequent the places he does—the better taverns near the merchant quarter. You'll strike up a conversation. Your Loenese is good. Use it. Be impressed by his wealth. Find out who else is impressed by it."
Lutz absorbed the details. It was a complex con, requiring patience, charm, and a deep understanding of social cues. It was, he realized, the ultimate application of his skills.
"And if he doesn't bite?" Lutz asked.
"Then we find another way," Karl said flatly. "But the Baron believes you can do this. Don't make him regret his belief." He stood up to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Fischer? You'll need to look the part." He tossed a small, heavy pouch onto the table. It landed with a soft clink of coin. "Get yourself some decent clothes. Don't waste it."
With that, Karl turned and melted back into the stacks, leaving Lutz alone with the weight of the new assignment and the heavier weight of the coin pouch. He looked down at the money, then at the book on tariffs. Knowledge was a currency, indeed. But now, he was being paid to spend it. The game had just changed, and the stakes had been raised immeasurably.
Lutz left the library, the weight of the coin pouch a foreign comfort in his pocket. Karl's directive echoed in his mind: Look the part. It was a simple order, but it felt more invasive than being told to steal or threaten. This was about changing his skin, not just his actions.
His first stop was a public bathhouse he'd seen near the merchant quarter. For a few copper Pfenninge, he purchased a scalding bath and a sliver of coarse soap. He scrubbed away the grime of the warehouse, the lingering smell of the docks, and the psychic residue of alleyways. The water turned gray. When he emerged, his skin felt raw, but clean. The act was strangely ritualistic, like washing away Lutz Fischer, the street urchin, to make way for the new persona.
Next was the barber. He chose a shop that looked respectable but not opulent, the kind of place a minor functionary or a struggling clerk might frequent. The barber, a man with kind eyes and deft hands, looked curiously at Lutz's unruly mop of ash-blond hair.
"What'll it be, son?"
Lutz had already decided. He needed to look older, sharper. "Short. Tidy. Off the collar and the ears." He gestured vaguely, trying to mimic the styles he'd seen on younger merchants in the library.
The barber nodded and went to work. Snip by snip, the shaggy locks that had hidden his face fell away. The barber trimmed the back and sides short, leaving a slightly longer, tamed version on top. When he held up the mirror, Lutz barely recognized the young man staring back. The sharp angles of his face were exposed, his jawline more defined. The pale, calculating gray-blue eyes, once shadowed by hair, now seemed to dominate his features. He looked… presentable. Sharp. Even slightly aristocratic, in a worn-around-the-edges kind of way. It was a disconcerting transformation.
"Much better," the barber said with a satisfied smile. "A young man with prospects should look the part."
Lutz paid him, the irony of the statement bitter on his tongue. His only prospect was a dangerous lie.
Finally, with the bulk of the coin, he went to a second-hand clothier. He avoided the flashy items, choosing instead a pair of well-tailored but simple wool trousers, a sturdy white cotton shirt, and a dark gray waistcoat that showed minimal wear. The final touch was a necktie, a skill he'd only read about and had to fumble with in the shop's back room. Dressed, he looked in the shop's smudged mirror.
The reflection was a stranger. He looked like a university student, or the junior secretary of a minor official. He looked like Andrei Hayes might have looked, in another life. The disguise was perfect, which made it all the more unsettling. He was constructing a prison of respectability, and the walls were a well-fitted waistcoat and a proper haircut.
He returned to the warehouse as dusk fell. The usual chatter near the entrance died the moment he stepped inside. Finn, who was lounging by the door, did a double-take, his jaw slack.
"Fischer?" he blurted out. "By the Baron's balls, is that you? You look like a... a damn accountant!"
Lutz offered a wry, practiced smile—the first expression of his new character. "Appearances are a tool, Finn. Just like a crowbar. Sometimes you need a different one for a different job."
He walked past the staring men towards his bunk, feeling their eyes on his back. He wasn't one of them anymore. Not quite. He was something else now, a tool being sharpened for a more precise, more delicate kind of damage. He stashed his old clothes under his bunk, a hidden reminder of the grimy reality beneath the polish. The coin had been spent.
Lutz lay on his bunk that night, staring at the rough-hewn beams above. The scratch of the new wool trousers against his skin was a constant, irritating reminder of the performance to come. He felt like a prized pig that had been scrubbed clean for the market.
Well, this is a new kind of prison, he thought, the cynicism a familiar shield. Instead of a closet, it's a waistcoat. Progress, I suppose. The food's still terrible, though.
He ran a hand over his newly-shorn hair. The sensation was alien, the air cold on his scalp. There goes my built-in disguise. Now I actually have to rely on my wits instead of just hiding behind a curtain of hair. What a terrifying concept.
The image of Finn's stunned face replayed in his mind. 'You look like a damn accountant.' Lutz almost smiled in the dark. If only he knew. My new job is basically accounting. Tallying up a merchant's secrets instead of coins. The only thing I'll be breaking is his confidence, hopefully not over my knee.
He thought of Karl's instructions. A disgraced noble family. Right. Because nothing says 'trustworthy' like a desperate aristocrat with a shady past. I'm sure this Alistair Finch will find that utterly charming. The entire plan was a house of cards built on a foundation of other people's greed and stupidity. It was, he had to admit, a perfect reflection of the world.
Alright, 'Alistair Finch', Lutz thought, a final, darkly amused observation before sleep took him. Let's see if your money can talk louder than my bullshit. It should be a fascinating conversation.
The morning arrived not with a clangor of bells, but with the dull ache of anticipation. Lutz dressed slowly, the fine fabric of his new clothes feeling like a costume for a play he hadn't rehearsed. Each button on the waistcoat was a step closer to the stage.
Perfect, he thought, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a polished piece of metal. I look like the kind of young man who spends his time worrying about inheritance law and poetry. The perfect disguise for a snake.
He joined the others for the morning slop they called porridge. The usual grunts and chatter were subdued. Eyes flicked toward him, not with hostility, but with a wary curiosity. He was an anomaly.
Henrik, the old viper, gave him a long, appraising look as Lutz sat down. "So. The Baron's sending you to play with the fancy folk," he grunted, not unkindly.
"Someone has to," Lutz replied, stirring his porridge. "They can't all be convinced with a truncheon to the knee. Some of them require a... conversational approach."
Henrik let out a short, barking laugh. "Aye. A conversation where you pick their pocket with your pretty words. Just remember, boy. A man who relies on a knife knows he has a knife. A man who relies on his tongue can forget it's a weapon until it's too late."
The advice was sharper than it seemed. Lutz nodded. "I'll try not to bite it off."
After the meal, he didn't wait for Karl. The plan was in motion. He walked out of the warehouse and turned not toward the docks or the market, but inland, toward the merchant quarter. The change in scenery was immediate. The streets were wider, the buildings cleaner, though still stained with soot. The people moved with a different purpose, less about survival and more about commerce.
His target was a place called The Gilded Quill, a tavern known to be a haunt for mid-level merchants and ship captains who fancied themselves a cut above the common rabble. It was exactly the kind of place a man like Alistair Finch would frequent to feel important.
Pushing open the heavy door, Lutz was met with the smell of waxed wood, good tobacco, and roasted meat. The noise was a low, polite hum, a world away from the raucous chaos of the Rusty Nail. He found an empty table in a corner, ordered a cup of tea—a drink he knew would mark him as sober and serious—and opened a book he'd borrowed from the library, a dry history of Feysac trade routes.
And now, he thought, taking a sip of the bitter, overpriced tea, we wait. The most thrilling part of espionage: pretending to read while waiting for a rich fool to show up. My life has become unbearably glamorous.
He didn't have to wait long. Within the hour, a man matching the description entered. Alistair Finch was a stout Loenishman in his forties, dressed in a slightly-too-opulent coat for the setting, his fingers adorned with rings that caught the light. He was accompanied by a large, silent man who took up a post by the door—the bodyguard.
Finch settled at a prime table, signaling for a bottle of wine. He looked around the room with an air of impatient importance.
Lutz took a slow breath. The gambit was on. He closed his book, stood, and approached the merchant's table, allowing a carefully practiced expression of hesitant admiration to settle on his face.
"Pardon the intrusion, sir," he began, his Loenish accent flawless, cultured. "But I couldn't help but notice... are you by chance Alistair Finch? I read about your proposed venture in the broadsheets. A bold move, sir. Very bold."
He was in. The first card had been played. Now, he had to build the entire house, one careful, lying word at a time.