The warehouse smelled of sawdust, dry grain, and expensive spices. It was a cavernous space, stacked to the rafters with crates that represented more wealth than Elias had seen in his entire former life.
Master Vane didn't leave them alone. He gestured to a burly guard standing by the door.
"Tull," Vane said. "Watch him. If he tries to slip anything into his coat, break his fingers."
Tull, a man with a face like a slab of granite, nodded once. He dragged a chair in front of the only exit, sat down, and placed a heavy cudgel across his knees.
Vane pointed to a small, cluttered desk in the corner. Piles of loose parchment and leather-bound ledgers were stacked precariously on top of it.
"The logs are there," Vane said. "I'll be back at dawn. You better have something worth my time, gambler."
The heavy oak door slammed shut. The sound echoed in the silence.
Elias let out a breath he had been holding. The adrenaline was fading again, replaced by the gnawing exhaustion of the day. His hands started to tremor.
He looked down at Leo. The boy was staring at the guard with wide, fearful eyes.
"Come," Elias said softly.
He led Leo to a corner behind a stack of wool bales, out of the guard's direct line of sight. It was warmer in here than outside, sheltered from the wind by the thick stone walls.
Elias gathered several empty burlap sacks from a pile. He shook them out to remove the dust and arranged them into a makeshift mattress on the floor. He took off his own outer coat—though it made him shiver instantly to do so—and rolled it into a pillow.
"Sleep," Elias whispered. "I will be right over there."
Leo looked at the makeshift bed, then at Elias. "You won't leave?"
"The door is locked," Elias said. "I am not going anywhere."
Leo lay down. He was asleep within minutes, exhausted by the cold and the walking.
Elias walked to the desk.
He lit the oil lamp. The golden light spilled over the chaotic mess of paperwork. He pulled out the chair and sat down.
His stomach cramped. He ignored it. He dipped the quill into the inkwell, tested the tip on a scrap of paper, and opened the first ledger.
The work was a nightmare of incompetence.
Vane's current clerk was not just lazy; he was sloppy. Entries were missing dates. The handwriting changed styles halfway through the page. Numbers were crossed out and rewritten without initialing.
To the original Elias, this would have been a headache. To the man sitting in the chair now, it was a puzzle waiting to be solved.
Elias began to organize. He didn't try to fix the ledger. Instead, he created a new, streamlined summary on a fresh sheet of parchment. He created three columns: Inventory In, Inventory Out, and Reported Loss.
Hours ticked by. The oil in the lamp burned lower.
Tull, the guard, began to snore softly in his chair.
Elias's vision blurred. His body was failing him. The withdrawal was making his skin crawl, a sensation like insects moving under the surface. He had to stop every few minutes to clench his hands until the shaking subsided enough to write.
He drank water from a pitcher on the desk to trick his stomach into thinking it was full.
By the third hour, he found the pattern.
It was subtle. A crate of peppercorns listed as "water damaged" in July. A bolt of silk listed as "rat eaten" in August. A cask of brandy listed as "leaked" in September.
Separately, they looked like bad luck. Together, viewed through the lens of a consolidated spreadsheet, they formed a straight line.
The "losses" always occurred on the third week of the month. They always involved high-value, easily resellable goods. And they always happened during the shift of a foreman named Garris.
Elias cross-referenced the weight of the "damaged" goods with the disposal logs. There were no disposal logs. If ten pounds of pepper had been ruined by water, it should have been thrown out. There was no record of it being hauled away.
It wasn't spoilage. It was theft.
Elias dipped his quill again. He began to calculate the total value of the stolen goods over the last year.
He wrote the final number at the bottom of the page. It was staggering.
The sun began to bleed gray light through the high windows of the warehouse. Elias put down the quill. He rubbed his face with his hands. He felt brittle, as if his bones were made of glass.
The heavy lock on the door clicked.
Tull jumped awake, gripping his cudgel.
The door swung open. Master Vane walked in, looking fresh and well-rested. He brought the cold morning air with him.
"Well?" Vane asked, stripping off his gloves. "Did you find anything, or should I call the guards to throw you out?"
Elias didn't stand up. He didn't have the energy. He simply turned the parchment around and slid it across the desk.
"You don't have a rat problem," Elias said, his voice raspy. "You have a foreman problem."
Vane walked over. He picked up the sheet.
He scanned the columns. He saw the dates. He saw the correlation with Garris's shifts. He saw the lack of disposal records. And finally, he saw the total sum at the bottom.
Vane's face went pale, then red.
"Garris," Vane whispered. "I invited that man to my daughter's wedding."
"He's been stealing roughly forty silver coins' worth of goods every month," Elias said calmly. "He marks it as spoilage so you don't investigate. Since you don't cross-reference your disposal logs with your inventory logs, he simply walks out the door with the crates."
Vane looked at the paper again. The logic was irrefutable. It was simple arithmetic, laid out with a clarity that made the theft obvious.
Vane looked at Elias. The contempt was gone, replaced by a calculating assessment.
"You found this in one night," Vane said.
"Your clerk is incompetent," Elias replied. "The trail was wide enough to drive a wagon through."
Vane folded the paper and tucked it into his coat. "Tull. Go fetch Garris. Bring him to my office. Tell him... tell him we need to discuss a bonus."
Tull nodded and hurried out.
Vane turned back to Elias. "You won the bet. You saved me a fortune."
He reached for his purse. "What was it? A year's wages? That's about five gold coins for a junior scribe."
"I need fifty silver," Elias said.
Vane paused. "That's exactly five gold. Fine."
He counted out the coins. But before he handed them over, he stopped. He looked at Elias's shaking hands. He looked at the desperation in his eyes.
Vane pulled the money back.
"No," Vane said slowly. "I know that look. If I give you this money now, you'll be at the dice tables within the hour. You'll lose it all, and tomorrow you'll be back in the gutter."
"It is for a debt," Elias said tighty. "A life debt."
"I don't care," Vane said. He put the coins back in his pouch. "I need a new inventory clerk. You have the skills. I'll hire you. I'll pay you a fair wage, paid weekly. But I'm not giving a lump sum to a gambler."
Elias felt the cold knot of panic in his chest. He needed the money now. The Black Iron Gang wouldn't wait for weekly wages.
"I cannot wait," Elias said. "I need the fifty silver today. Or I am dead."
"Then you are dead," Vane said coldly. "I'm a merchant, Thorne. I don't throw good money after bad investments."
Elias stood up. He swayed slightly but caught himself on the desk.
He looked Vane in the eye.
"Then take my life," Elias said.
Vane frowned. "What?"
"An indenture contract," Elias said. "A Life Deed."
The room went silent. A Life Deed was an ancient, brutal form of contract. It wasn't employment; it was ownership. It gave the master the legal right to the servant's labor for life, with no right to resign. If the servant fled, they could be branded.
"You give me the fifty silver now as an advance," Elias said, his voice steady. "I sign a deed binding myself to your service for five years. No wages. Just food and lodging for me and the boy."
Vane stared at him. "You would sell yourself into slavery for fifty silver?"
"I am betting on myself," Elias said. "If I gamble again, if I steal a single copper, if I miss a day of work... you can enforce the deed. You can send me to the mines. You own me."
He leaned forward.
"But if I work for you, I will save you ten times that amount in the first year alone. You saw what I did in one night. Imagine what I can do in a year."
Vane looked at the ledger. He looked at the shivering man who possessed the mind of a master archivist. It was a predatory deal. For fifty silver, he would get a genius scribe for five years.
"Five years," Vane repeated. "No wages. Just room and board."
"And the fifty silver now," Elias said.
Vane walked to the desk. He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. He picked up the quill Elias had used.
He wrote quickly. It was a brutal contract. Total liability. Forfeiture of freedom upon breach of trust.
He pushed the paper toward Elias.
"Sign it," Vane said.
Elias didn't hesitate. He signed Elias Thorne at the bottom. The ink was black and permanent.
Vane checked the signature. He nodded, satisfied. He opened his purse and counted out fifty heavy silver coins onto the desk.
"You start tomorrow," Vane said. "Don't be late."
Vane walked out.
Elias stared at the pile of silver. It was enough to save Leo. It had cost him his freedom, but for a man who had already lived a thousand lives, five years was nothing.
He scooped the coins into his satchel. The weight was heavy, dragging down his belt.
He walked over to the corner behind the wool bales.
Leo was sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked at Elias.
"Father?"
Elias knelt. He looked exhausted, older than his years, but he offered a small, tired smile.
"Get up, Leo," Elias said gently. "We are going to pay the bad men. And then... we are going to buy you a coat."