Three days had passed since Lorrick's encounter with Varys. The strange meeting lingered in his thoughts as he made his way toward the docks, hood pulled low despite the morning heat. Tommen's fever had finally broken the previous night, the boy's skin cool to the touch for the first time in days. Marta's medicine, the real medicine, had worked wonders. The debt to Varys, however, remained unpaid, and Lorrick couldn't shake the feeling that such debts always came due eventually.
The smell of salt and fish grew stronger as he approached the harbor. Ships from across the Narrow Sea and beyond crowded the docks, their colorful sails a stark contrast to the grimy waters of Blackwater Bay. Sailors shouted in a dozen different tongues, merchants haggled over prices, and dockworkers hauled cargo under the watchful eyes of both ship captains and Gold Cloaks.
Lorrick found his usual spot, a shadow cast by stacked crates containing wine from the Arbor. He settled in, seemingly just another street urchin taking shelter from the sun. In truth, this position offered clear lines of sight to three major trading posts and excellent acoustics for catching conversations never meant for public ears.
"The Tyroshi silk is twice what it was last season," complained a fat merchant in expensive but travel-worn clothes. "If the Archon keeps raising export taxes, we'll need to find new sources."
His companion, a thin man with a meticulously trimmed beard, snorted. "You'll pay it regardless. Your lady customers won't accept Myrish lace as a substitute, no matter what you tell them."
Lorrick filed the information away. Tyroshi silk prices rising meant opportunities for those with connections to alternative suppliers, particularly the smugglers who operated along the Pentoshi coast. Stannis Baratheon might have broken the worst of the smuggling rings during his time as Master of Ships, but for every captain caught, three more took to the seas.
He shifted position as a new group approached, these bearing the silver-thread tunics of the Spicers' Guild. Their hushed tones immediately caught his attention.
"The Sea Snake returns within the fortnight," whispered a balding man with jeweled fingers. "My sources in Braavos confirmed it sailed three days past."
"Impossible," hissed his companion. "The Iron Bank wouldn't release the shipment until next moon."
"The terms changed," the first man insisted. "Something about royal guarantees. The Lannisters put their name behind it."
"Seven hells," breathed the second man. "We've already contracted for Lyseni spices at the higher rate, assuming the shortage would continue. If the Sea Snake returns early with a full hold..."
"We'll be ruined," the first man finished grimly. "Unless we can delay its landing somehow."
They moved out of earshot, heads bent together in urgent conference. Lorrick's mind raced with the implications. The Sea Snake was infamous, a merchant vessel large enough to change market prices single-handedly when it arrived laden with exotic goods. Its early return would devastate merchants who had gambled on continued scarcity.
Such information was worth far more than a copper. With the right buyer, it might fetch silver, perhaps even gold.
Lorrick continued his silent observation for another hour, gathering scraps of gossip about upcoming marriages among minor nobles, complaints about the King's latest hunting expedition draining the royal coffers, and rumors of strange happenings beyond the Wall that made him think of his own mother's Northern blood and her winter stories.
By midday, his legs were cramped and his stomach empty, but his mind was full. He slipped away from the docks, navigating through the crowds with practiced ease. His destination was a small counting house tucked between a chandler's shop and a tavern in the shadow of Baelor's Sept.
The guard at the door gave him a dismissive glance, taking in his shabby clothes and starting to wave him away.
"I'm here to see Master Wendel," Lorrick said before the guard could speak. "Tell him it's about the Sea Snake."
The guard's expression shifted minutely. "Wait here."
Moments later, Lorrick was ushered into a small but well-appointed office where a middle-aged man with shrewd eyes sat behind a desk covered in ledgers.
"You have information about the Sea Snake?" Wendel asked without preamble, setting aside his quill.
"Depends on who's asking," Lorrick replied, maintaining eye contact despite the man's intimidating stare. "And what it's worth."
Wendel's lips twitched in what might have been amusement or irritation. "Bold for a boy from Flea Bottom."
"Information doesn't care where it comes from," Lorrick countered. "Only whether it's true."
"And is yours true?"
"True enough to be worth two silver stags."
Wendel barked a laugh. "Two silver for dock gossip? I could send my own men for that price."
"You could," Lorrick agreed amiably. "But they'd stand out. Sailors don't talk freely around men who look like they work for counting houses. They talk around street rats who seem too young to understand what they're hearing."
The merchant studied him for a long moment. "One silver. And that's if your information proves valuable."
"One now, one after you verify it," Lorrick countered. "I don't expect charity, but neither do I work on pure faith."
Another moment of silence stretched between them before Wendel reached into a drawer and produced a single silver coin, placing it on the desk between them.
"The Sea Snake returns within the fortnight," Lorrick said, watching the merchant's face closely. "Sailing from Braavos three days past, with the Iron Bank's blessing secured by Lannister guarantees."
The effect was immediate. Wendel's eyes widened fractionally, his fingers tightening on the edge of his desk. "You're certain of this?"
"Heard it from members of the Spicers' Guild themselves. They're panicking about shipments they've already contracted at famine prices."
Wendel reached for the coin and slid it toward Lorrick. "If this proves true, there will be more work for you."
Lorrick pocketed the silver, the weight of it satisfying against his palm. "I'm not hard to find."
"No," Wendel agreed, studying him with new interest. "I suspect you're not. What name should I ask for when I need you?"
"Lorrick. Just Lorrick."
"Very well, Just Lorrick," Wendel said with a hint of amusement. "I look forward to our next transaction."
As Lorrick left the counting house, he felt a small surge of pride. This was different from stealing or running messages. This was providing a service that people with real power valued. If he played this right, developed more sources, found more buyers for what he learned...
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Gold Cloaks marching a line of ragged prisoners toward the city gates. Public punishments again. King's Landing had seen more of them lately, though Lorrick paid little attention to the politics behind it all. The game of thrones, as some called it, had little relevance to Flea Bottom beyond determining which nobles' boots might crush your fingers when you begged.
Still, knowledge was power, and power meant survival. He changed direction, heading toward the Street of Flour where merchants' wives often gathered to gossip while buying bread. Noble ladies had their handmaidens to carry tales, but merchants' wives did their own talking, and often said more than they should in public.
By sunset, Lorrick had visited three more locations, gleaning tidbits about grain shipments, an impending betrothal between trading families, and rumors that the Hand of the King was investigating the parentage of the royal children. That last bit seemed too dangerous to sell, but he tucked it away nonetheless. Sometimes the most valuable information was the kind you kept to yourself.
His final stop before returning to the hideout was The Broken Anchor, a tavern frequented by ship captains and their first mates. He didn't enter, of course, simply crouched beneath the open window, nursing a cup of watered ale purchased with a copper while listening to the conversations within.
"Greyjoy ships spotted off the Fingers," a gruff voice was saying. "Third report this month."
"Balon getting restless again?" another voice asked.
"When isn't he? But it's more than usual. Something's brewing in the Iron Islands."
Lorrick committed the information to memory. The ironborn rarely concerned themselves with King's Landing directly, preferring to raid the western shores, but unusual activity might affect shipping, which in turn would affect prices. Master Wendel might pay for such news.
As darkness fell, Lorrick made his way back to Flea Bottom, mind buzzing with the day's harvest of secrets. He'd earned enough to feed the children for a week, with coin left over to perhaps buy Tommen a proper blanket for the coming autumn nights.
More than that, though, he'd taken the first real steps toward building something lasting. Information flowed through King's Landing like blood through a body, and those who could tap into that flow without being noticed held power disproportionate to their station. It wasn't the power of lords with their armies or merchants with their gold, but it was power nonetheless.
The thought warmed him more than the silver in his pocket. He'd been a thief, a beggar, a messenger, always scrambling just to survive another day. But this, this could be different. This could be a way up from the gutter.
When he reached the hideout, he found Tommen sitting up, pale but alert, while Jena told him an improbable story about knights and dragons. The sight banished Lorrick's grand thoughts, replacing them with simple relief.
"Look who's back from the dead," he said, smiling as he dropped a small sack of bread and cheese onto their makeshift table.
"Thanks to you," Tommen said, his voice still weak but his eyes clear. "Weasel told me what you did."
Lorrick shrugged uncomfortably. "Anyone would have done the same."
"No," Tommen said with the directness of a child. "They wouldn't. Most people in Flea Bottom would've left me to die."
The words hung in the air, their truth undeniable. Life was cheap in the poorest parts of King's Landing. Children died of fever, hunger, or violence every day, unremarked and unmourned except by those who loved them.
"Well, I'm not most people," Lorrick said lightly, ruffling Tommen's hair to hide the sudden tightness in his throat. "Now eat something before you waste away to nothing."
As the children fell upon the food, Lorrick found himself thinking about Varys again. The Spider had eyes everywhere, knew secrets most couldn't imagine. What was it he had said? Knowledge is valuable in this city, often more valuable than gold.
Perhaps, Lorrick thought, it was time to build a web of his own.