Finn sensed Kael's approach before he saw him. It was a subtle shift in the market's rhythm, a parting of the human current as people instinctively made way. Kael appeared beside his stall, his presence a pocket of calm in the midday chaos. He didn't comment on Finn's meager display of goods or the tired lines around his eyes.
"A quiet job," Kael said, his voice low and even. "No fighting. Just a delivery." He placed a small, cloth-wrapped package on the counter. It was heavy for its size. "The pay is in silver."
The distinction was not lost on Finn. Silver was the currency of real work, of secrets and risks. Copper was for survival. He looked from the package to Kael's unreadable expression, knowing this was the same offer as before, only now the choice had been made for him. He gave a single, sharp nod.
Kael's instructions were simple and laced with the city's coded language. "Follow the path marked in chalk, the one that looks like a broken arrow. Speak only when you're spoken to." He handed Finn the package. "And don't be late."
The chalk marks led him away from the market's main arteries and into a maze of back alleys and covered throughways. It was a path for insiders, marked by symbols that would be invisible to an outsider's eye. He moved with a quiet confidence, his steps sure on the uneven stones, reading the silent warnings and directions as easily as a merchant read a ledger.
The path ended at a warehouse gate on the industrial wharf, where two bored-looking dock guards blocked the entrance. They straightened up as he approached, their expressions shifting from lethargy to suspicion.
"No entry without a manifest," the first one said, resting a hand on the hilt of his short sword. "What's your business?"
Finn held up the package. "A delivery."
"Delivery for who? Got papers?"
Finn knew he had none. He also knew that hesitation was a confession. He let out an exasperated sigh, feigning an urgency he didn't feel. "It's perishables for the council kitchens," he said, his voice pitched to carry a note of irritation. "Spices from the southern ship. The harbormaster himself will have my hide—and your captain's—if they're late for the evening feast."
The guards exchanged an uncertain glance. The lie was specific, layered with just enough bureaucratic threat to make them question the value of enforcing the rule. The first guard grumbled but stepped aside. "Go on, then. But be quick about it."
Finn walked through the gate without a backward glance. He found the delivery point just inside: an unmarked door where a clerk with ink-stained fingers was waiting. The man took the package without a word, his eyes never meeting Finn's. He checked the seal, then turned to leave.
"Wait," Finn said. "Is that it?"
The clerk paused and looked back, his expression one of mild annoyance. "You're late," he said, before disappearing into the warehouse's cavernous shadows.