The two men exchanged glances, surprise flickering across their faces. Clearly, they hadn't expected their quarry to simply walk up and knock on the door.
"You're coming with us," the larger man said, his hand still resting on his knife hilt.
"I know," Dust replied. "But first, let the woman and her husband go. This is between me and Garrett."
The man by the window—shorter but stockier, with scars on his knuckles—laughed harshly. "You're not in a position to make demands, boy."
"Actually, I think I am." Dust pulled the leather pouch from his pocket, letting it rest in his open palm where both men could see it. The clink of silver was unmistakable. "Twenty pieces. Enough to cover Clara's debt with interest."
Both men's eyes fixed on the pouch, and Dust saw their calculations working. Twenty silver was more than either of them probably made in months of Garrett's employ.
"Where did a street rat like you get that kind of money?" the larger man asked suspiciously.
"Does it matter? It's real silver, and it's more than what's owed." Dust kept his voice calm, though his heart was racing. "Take it to Garrett. Tell him the debt is paid."
"You think it's that simple?" The scarred man stepped closer. "You think you can just throw money at this and walk away?"
"No," Dust admitted. "I know Garrett wants more than payment. He wants me. So here I am."
Clara started to speak from her chair, but Dust caught her eye and shook his head slightly. Whatever she was planning to say—whether protest or plea—it would only make things worse.
The larger man studied Dust for a long moment, then made his decision. "Garrett can decide what to do with the money. Our job is to bring you to him." He jerked his head toward his companion. "Tie him up."
"That's not necessary," Dust said quickly. "I'll come willingly."
"Sure you will. Right up until we turn our backs." The scarred man was already pulling rope from his belt. "Turn around, hands behind your back."
Dust hesitated. Once his hands were bound, he'd be completely helpless. But he'd known this was a possibility when he knocked on the door. Sometimes you had to take a leap of faith, even when you couldn't see the bottom.
He turned around and placed his hands behind his back. The rope was rough against his wrists, tied tight enough to cut off circulation. When the man spun him back around, Dust flexed his fingers, trying to keep the blood flowing.
"What about them?" the larger man asked, nodding toward Clara.
"Leave them be. They've got nothing to do with this anymore."
"That's not our call to make."
"Then ask Garrett," Dust said firmly. "But I'm not going anywhere if you hurt them."
The two men exchanged another look. They clearly hadn't expected this level of cooperation from their prisoner, and it was making them uncertain. Finally, the larger man shrugged.
"We'll let the boss decide. But if you try anything—anything at all—the old woman pays for it. Understood?"
"Understood."
Clara rose from her chair as they prepared to leave. "Wait," she said, her voice stronger than it had been all afternoon. She approached Dust, moving slowly so the men wouldn't see her as a threat.
"You didn't have to do this," she whispered, reaching up to straighten his cloak with maternal concern. "I'm so sorry, child."
"It's not your fault," Dust replied quietly. As Clara's hands adjusted his cloak, he felt her press something small and hard into the fabric near his shoulder—a thin shard of the broken window glass, sharp enough to cut rope if he could reach it.
The woman was cleverer than anyone gave her credit for.
"Enough talking," the scarred man said. "Time to go."
They walked through Lower Ashmark's twisting streets in an odd procession—the two men flanking Dust, hands near their weapons, while he walked between them with apparent calm. To casual observers, they might have looked like friends heading to a tavern. But Dust could feel the tension radiating from his escorts, the way their eyes constantly scanned for potential threats or escape routes.
The afternoon sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon, casting long shadows between the buildings. In a few hours, the Sea Witch would sail with the evening tide, carrying Captain Aldrich and his offer of freedom to distant shores. The thought sent a pang of regret through Dust's chest, but he pushed it aside. He'd made his choice.
The tavern where Garrett held court was busier than it had been during Dust's previous visit. The main room was full of rough men drinking ale and conducting business in low voices. Conversations paused as Dust and his escorts entered, eyes tracking their movement toward the back room.
Word traveled fast in places like this. Within minutes, everyone in the tavern would know that the boy Garrett had been hunting was now in custody.
The back room was exactly as Dust remembered it—smoke-filled air, scarred wooden tables, men with dangerous eyes conducting dangerous business. And at the center of it all, Marcus Garrett himself, looking like nothing more than a successful merchant reviewing his accounts.
"Ah," Garrett said without looking up from the papers spread before him. "The elusive young man finally graces us with his presence."
The scarred man stepped forward and placed the leather pouch on Garrett's table. "He brought this. Says it's to cover the old woman's debt."
Now Garrett did look up, his pale eyes fixing on Dust with calculating interest. He opened the pouch and spilled several silver coins onto the table, examining them in the lamplight.
"Good quality silver," he observed. "Where did you acquire such wealth?"
"Honest work," Dust replied, which was technically true.
"Honest work." Garrett's thin lips curved in a smile that held no warmth. "How refreshing. And you thought this would solve our little problem?"
"I thought it might be a start."
"A start." Garrett leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Tell me, boy, what do you think our problem actually is?"
Dust met the man's cold gaze steadily. "You think I made you look weak by interfering with your business. You need to make an example of me to maintain your reputation."
"Very good. You understand the situation perfectly." Garrett's smile widened slightly. "So tell me—what makes you think twenty pieces of silver changes any of that?"
The room had gone completely quiet. Even the conversations at other tables had died away as everyone strained to hear what would happen next. Dust could feel sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air, but he kept his voice level.
"Because I'm here willingly. Because I'm not running anymore." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes showing mercy can make a man look stronger than showing cruelty."
One of Garrett's lieutenants snorted. "Listen to him talk. Kid thinks he's negotiating."
But Garrett held up a hand for silence, his eyes never leaving Dust's face. "Interesting perspective. But mercy is a luxury I can rarely afford in my line of work."
"Then don't call it mercy," Dust said. "Call it good business."
"Explain."
Dust took a deep breath, knowing his next words would determine whether he lived to see another sunrise. "You've got men all over Lower Ashmark looking for one street kid. That costs time and money. Meanwhile, your real business suffers because your people are distracted."
He gestured toward the silver coins on the table. "I'm offering you a clean end to this. Take the money, tell everyone the debt is settled and the insult paid for. You get your respect and your profit, and you can put your men back to work on things that actually matter."
The silence stretched out like a held breath. Garrett's pale eyes studied Dust as if he were a particularly interesting puzzle, while the other men in the room waited to see which way their leader would decide.
Finally, Garrett chuckled—a dry sound like wind through dead leaves.
"You have spine, I'll give you that. Walking in here, trying to negotiate your way out of a situation that should see you bleeding in an alley." He picked up one of the silver coins, turning it over in his fingers. "But spine without wisdom is just another word for stupidity."
"So what happens now?" Dust asked.
Garrett's smile faded, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the chill of winter ice.
"Now, my young friend, you learn that some debts can't be paid with silver."