The Floating Markets weren't a place you just visited; they were a place you had to survive. As Anya and Lena went down into the old dock area, the air grew heavy with the smell of salt, factory waste, and something else – a quiet feeling of hopelessness that stuck to the broken boats and old containers like dirt. This was Grimstone's real, wild underbelly, where official laws didn't exist, and a harsh, unwritten set of rules controlled everything.
"Stay close," Lena whispered, pulling her hood lower. Even without her police (CID) connection, being here was risky for her. Too many people knew her from old police raids, too many grudges were still alive. "And don't look anyone in the eye for too long. It means you're asking for trouble."
The market was a messy maze of narrow walkways connecting shaky, stacked boats. Homemade stalls, lit by flickering battery lamps, sold everything from illegal gadgets to lab-made food. The constant creak of old wood, the splash of dirty water, and the low buzz of people arguing over prices made a confusing mix of sounds.
They found The Weaver's stall in a very dark and lonely corner, tucked under the rusty wreck of a flipped ship. It wasn't really a stall, but a very strong metal box. Its single, glowing opening was guarded by a huge person with very big, strong shoulders. The air around it hummed with the faint, almost silent sound of advanced, illegal technology.
"Looking for the Weaver?" the guard grunted, his voice rough.
"We know someone he knows," Lena said, her voice calm and steady. "A police contact. Old files."
The guard's small, cold eyes flickered. He nodded slowly, then pushed aside a heavy metal door. Inside was a dimly lit room. The air inside was surprisingly clean, almost like a hospital, very different from the dirt outside. Shelves filled with strange, glowing parts and humming devices went deep into the darkness.
Behind a messy counter sat a man who barely looked human. He was very old, his skin like thin paper stretched over fragile bones. His eyes were huge behind thick, special glasses that made a faint whirring sound when he moved. His fingers, long and thin, danced over a glowing control panel. This was The Weaver.
"Visitors," The Weaver's voice was a dry, raspy whisper, but it still sounded strangely powerful. He didn't look up from his work. "And unwelcome ones, by the smell of the city's police dogs on your trail." He finally lifted his head, his huge eyes looking at Anya, then Lena. "Used to be police, and a Guard with too much feeling. A rare mix in this place."
"We need chameleon cloth," Anya said, getting straight to the point. "To get into a big party. Tonight."
The Weaver's thin, cracked lips spread into something like a smile. "Ah, the Founders' Ball. Such an easy target for those who... dream big." He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Chameleon cloth of the quality you need? That's very rare. A piece of true ghost-ware. And it comes with a price."
"Name it," Anya said, getting ready for something bad.
The Weaver finally looked straight at Lena. "Your police connections, Lena. The ones that kept you ahead, the ones that made other police jealous. I want access to your secret files. Your 'cold' files. The ones you kept after you... left the police. The real list of the police's dirty jobs, the secret operations they buried. The real rot."
Lena's face showed no emotion, but Anya felt a ripple of tension from her. These files were Lena's safety net, her power, her only real protection in Grimstone's cruel underworld. Giving them up was like making herself completely defenseless.
"That's my life, Weaver," Lena said, her voice barely a whisper.
"And it is the price for yours, if you wish to walk among the untouchables," The Weaver shot back, his magnified eyes shining. "Think of it as a trade. Information for information. Power for power. You want to show how bad the system is; I simply want to... understand it better. And maybe profit when it finally breaks apart."
Anya watched Lena. A quiet battle raged in the ex-police agent's eyes. It was a terrible choice: give up her carefully guarded secrets, or risk their entire mission and The Scribe's fate. The silence in the metal box stretched, broken only by the soft hum of The Weaver's machines.
"You have a deal," Lena finally said, her voice flat, without any feeling. "But if those files fall into the wrong hands... I'll come for you."
The Weaver just smiled, an old, chilling expression. "A fair deal. That's how Grimstone works, my dear. Give a little, take a lot." He reached under his counter and pulled out a small, tightly wrapped package of what looked like shimmering, incredibly thin fabric. "Now, for your Founders' Ball. Try not to get caught, ex-CID. It would be such a waste of good information."