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Chapter 16 - Chapter 16 - Undermarket II

He sat, folding his hands neatly, the picture of patience. "So, you paid for silence. What do you want with it?"

Kaelen kept his face flat. "Word is someone's been asking about couriers."

Greyhand's gaze didn't flicker. "Word travels fast."

"Fast enough that I'd rather know who's buying it."

At that, Greyhand tilted his head the smallest fraction, like a hound catching a scent. "Direct. Dangerous. Most men ease in with softer questions. But you didn't."

"I don't have time for soft."

"Mm." Greyhand leaned back, hands still folded. "Then you'll pay for sharp. Information here costs in measures. A whisper is a crown. A name is three. A truth…" He let the word linger, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly. "…a truth is whatever it's worth to you."

Kaelen kept his eyes on him. The muted air pressed close, the curtain suddenly feeling thinner than paper.

Greyhand turned the crown over once before tucking it away. "So, you want to know about couriers."

Kaelen didn't flinch.

"Black Cord lost something in a mess two nights back," Greyhand went on, voice steady, patient. "The kind of loss that makes people bleed for answers. The Guild let slip that a courier was seen near it. They didn't give a name." He leaned a little closer, pale eyes flat. "Not a bounty. A watch. They're listening for boots that match."

Kaelen's jaw tightened. "And?"

"The Cord haven't narrowed it down. They've posted men on a lot of well-known couriers in the area. I'm guessing you're one of them," Greyhand said. "But a handful out of East Docks are under suspicion. Enough to make life… uncomfortable. Someone's paying to have ears near slips, job boards, taverns. If you belong to the wrong habits, you'll be noticed."

Kaelen kept his voice even. "Whose ears?"

Greyhand's mouth curved, faint and dry. "That question isn't cheap. A name costs three."

Kaelen hesitated, then pulled the crowns from his pocket. He laid them down one by one.

For the first time, Greyhand's gaze shifted, not at the money, but at Kaelen. He weighed him, silence stretching until the runes in the alcove seemed to press closer. Finally, he laid his hand over the bills and made them vanish.

"Keelbrand," he said softly. "Cord man. Not their high table, but high enough that when he listens, answers appear. Or vanish."

The name settled like iron in Kaelen's gut.

Greyhand studied him a moment longer. "Careful how often you speak it. Brand has the ears of fanatics and the patience of a bookkeeper. Men like that don't need to shout. They just wait for you to put yourself in their ledger."

Kaelen forced his shoulders loose. "Anything else?"

"Plenty," Greyhand said. "But your purse is thin." He folded his hands again, pale eyes never leaving Kaelen's. "You've had your truth. Now decide what to do with it, before someone decides for you."

Kaelen sat in the silence Greyhand left hanging, the runes in the alcove pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat.

So Keelbrand. The same name I heard slip from Veyr's mouth the night of the incident. Which means whatever that Spark was, it belonged to them. Or they had their hands on it long enough to bleed for losing it.

There wasn't much else to go on. Not yet. He could ask, push Greyhand about the Spark, about what the Cord lost. But men like this didn't give away coin twice for the same truth. Even vouched, he might bury the rest out of habit. Or worse, sell the question to someone who'd pay more to know Kaelen was asking.

He drew a slow breath. Information gets me names. Names get me killed faster. What I need right now is something else. Something that keeps me breathing while I decide how far to chase this.

Kaelen leaned forward, voice low. "What about gear? Protection. Something that'll work at my level, and from someone who won't cheat me the first chance they get."

Greyhand's eyes flickered, faint amusement, or maybe approval. "Ah. You're not just curious, you're cautious." He laced his fingers together. "Very well. That's another kind of truth. And cheaper than most."

Greyhand steepled his fingers. "Since Taren sent you, I'll offer a courtesy. Free."

He leaned back, pale eyes half-lidded. "South quarter, second gallery. Look for a man named Mavrek. Big, scar down his cheek, sets his wares on black felt. He's Scales-marked, which means he values repeat business over cheating green faces. His blades aren't pretty, but they won't crumble in your hand when it matters."

Kaelen studied him, weighing the words.

Free. Which means either it's true… or Greyhand wants me seen at Mavrek's table. Could be both.

He gave a small nod, pushing to his feet. "Noted."

Greyhand didn't move. "One more thing." His voice was as flat as stone. "Don't try to look grateful. Gratitude is just another currency. Spend it, and someone will make you pay it back."

The curtain stirred behind Kaelen as he left the alcove. The Market's hum rushed in again, sharper now that the runes' hush was gone. Conversations cut short, curtains swayed with shadows, and the smell of resin and ore pressed heavy in his lungs.

He touched the crowns in his pocket. Enough for one decent piece of steel. Maybe. So, it was Keelbrand and the Black Cord after all. And now I need to decide if I trust Greyhand's thread, or if I find my own way through this Market.

The Market's hum swallowed him as he stepped back into the lanes. Curtains whispered shut behind him, deals muttering into silence. Kaelen let the flow of bodies carry him south, but his hand slipped into his pocket, fingers counting the thin weight of his purse.

Four crowns lighter at Greyhand's table. Two more paid to Taren for the bond. Six gone in a single night.

That left… Fourteen. All my savings.

Fourteen crowns between him and empty pockets. Fourteen crowns to buy something that had to keep him breathing. Enough, maybe, for a blade with runes that wouldn't crack after the first spark. Not enough for armour, not real armour.

He blew out a slow breath through his nose. Coin burns faster in the Market than anywhere else. If I don't walk out with something that keeps me breathing, then every crown was wasted.

The southern galleries yawned open ahead, lamplight glinting off steel and rune-etched banners. Voices here had more swagger, sellers calling out promises, knives flashing in practiced hands. Kaelen slowed, eyes scanning for the scarred face Greyhand had named.

Kaelen slowed as one man sliced a dagger through the air; flame rippled along its edge before sputtering out with a hiss. Another rapped his knuckles on a shield until it shimmered like water, promising wards that would "turn aside a spear like wind." Every pitch ended with the same grin, the same hungry eye for coin.

Bait, Kaelen thought. Pretty lies for desperate hands.

He pushed deeper. That's when he saw him, Mavrek.

The smith's table sat against the wall, black felt laid neat beneath a smaller spread of weapons. No banners, no shouted promises. Just steel: a half dozen short blades, a pair of gauntlets with faint reinforcement runes, and a buckler so plain it might have come off any dock guard's arm.

Mavrek himself was a broad man with a scar splitting his cheek, grey threaded through his beard. His coat sleeve bore a thin brass strip at the cuff, Scales-marked.

"You're new," Mavrek said when Kaelen stopped. His voice was rough, low, but not unkind. "Greyhand send you?"

Kaelen gave a single nod.

"Then I won't waste your time." Mavrek reached under the counter and began laying steel across the cloth.

First came a short sword, runes etched shallow along the fuller. "Reliable. Holds a Spark long enough for a strike, doesn't drink itself to death after three swings. 20 crowns."

Next, a buckler no larger than a dinner plate. "Warded edge. Will turn aside a knife or a stray Spark-flare. Won't save you from a spear in the gut. 16 crowns."

He set down a pair of iron-lined gauntlets, heavy with dull glow-lines. "Reinforcement runes. Good for breaking bones with your hands. 15 crowns, but they'll wear you faster than you'll wear them."

Finally, he dragged a plain dagger from the pile, iron spine, single edge, nothing special. "Standard steel. You'll find ten like it on the next table. 10 crowns."

Mavrek folded his arms. "15 crowns buy you a piece and change. Or two, if you don't mind light steel."

Kaelen let his gaze move over the spread. All I've got. All I'll have for a while. One choice to keep me breathing. And I can barely afford any.

Mavrek watched him a moment, then gave a grunt and bent to rummage under the counter again. When he came back up, he set down something different.

Then he dragged a cloth aside and revealed something stranger: a compact blade with a coil of wire folded against the hilt, no longer than a man's forearm. The wire was thin, dark, wound through a set of tiny rune clamps. "Tether-dagger," Mavrek said flatly, as if embarrassed to show it. "Throw it, and the line holds. In theory. More often tangles. Breaks if you yank wrong. Most fighters won't touch the thing."

Kaelen picked it up. The balance was odd, nose-heavy with the wire's weight, but not impossible. He tilted it and let the line spill a little, thin, dark, surprisingly taut.

Mobility. Reach. His mind was already turning. SkyStep can throw me high, fast, out of reach. If I can plant this blade, I could pull myself across gaps. Swing corners. Anchor instead of falling. Even drag someone off balance, if I catch them clean.

The risk sat there too, he could feel it in the weight of the line. If it snaps, I fall. If it tangles, I'm meat. But the thought pressed in closer: Better than a blade I can barely swing. Better than fists against steel.

Mavrek shrugged, misreading his silence. "Only gutter-runners and smugglers bother with them. Too fiddly for proper work. But it's yours for 12 crowns. I'll even throw in a spare line. Break one, you'll need it."

Kaelen's jaw tightened. Twelve was steep with only Fourteen left in his purse. Twelve meant walking out with two crowns between me and hunger.

But as he weighed the blade, feeling the tension in the wire hum faintly against his palm, the thought wouldn't leave him: This one fits. Not for a soldier. For me.

"I'll Take it" said Kaelen.

Mavrek gave a short grunt, as if surprised he'd bought the thing. "Your funeral. Or your edge."

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