The scent of fried potatoes, smoked bacon, and strong, bitter coffee filled the cramped dining room of "The Gilded Kettle." It was a far cry from the greasy spoons and dubious taverns of Indaw Harbor, but it served its purpose. James Morgan, freshly shaven and wearing an eye-catching waistcoat of Pastel-Amber, sipped his coffee and scanned the "St. Millom Courier" with a casual air.
Another day, another performance, Lutz thought from behind the pleasant mask of James's face. The bacon is pretty good.
He'd spent a small fortune yesterday turning 17 Vesper Lane from an empty shell into a believable home for a wealthy young noble from the south. But a house like that, occupied by a single man with no staff, would raise eyebrows. It screamed of secrecy or, almost as bad, poor financial management. A lone man was also a vulnerable man, both to real thieves and the predatory gossips of high society.
His eyes, skimming the society pages and mercantile reports, landed on the advertisements section. 'Positions Vacant.' There were calls for experienced stable hands, a chef for a Count's household, and a tutor in Feysacian poetry. Then, a simpler one caught his eye:
'Seeking a position. Young woman, experienced in household management, cooking, and sewing. Hardworking and discreet. Inquire at 42, Weaver's Street, after noon.'
Discreet. That was the word that sold him. Weaver's Street was in a respectable but not affluent part of the city. It was the kind of place where ambition was tempered by practicality.
"Something amusing in the paper, sir?" the elderly owner asked as he refilled Lutz's cup.
"Just the endless ballet of St. Millom's elite, my good man," Lutz replied, letting James Morgan's slightly drawling, frivolous tone take over. "It seems Lady So-and-So's poodle has won a ribbon, and the city is expected to celebrate for a week. It's all so terribly… important." He gave a self-deprecating wink, inviting the man to share in the joke at the aristocracy's expense.
The owner chuckled. "Aye, sir. Their worries are of a different sort than ours."
You have no idea, Lutz thought, finishing his coffee. My worries involve the gathering of bizarre ingredients, the swindling of nobles and merchants, and a ring that probably wants to eat my soul. I'd take a problematic poodle any day.
He paid with a few coppers, leaving a generous tip that cemented James Morgan's reputation as a pleasant and free-spending new resident, and stepped out into the brisk morning air. He stopped a carriage and got in. His destination: 42, Weaver's Street.
The building was a narrow, three-story tenement, clean but showing its age. He knocked, and the door was opened by a woman in her late forties with a weary but sharp expression.
"Good morning," Lutz said, doffing his hat and offering his most disarming smile. "I believe I'm here about the position advertised in the Courier? The name is Morgan. James Morgan."
The woman's eyes widened slightly, taking in the quality of his clothes. "I'm Mrs. Harlow. The girl is my niece, Eliza. Please, come in, sir. The parlor is just here."
The parlor was small and cramped, but meticulously clean. A moment later, a young woman entered. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty, with a smattering of faint freckles across her nose and wide green eyes that held a mixture of hope and nervousness. Her brown hair was pulled back in a simple but neat bun. She wore a simple, faded dress that had been mended with care.
Innocent-looking. Good. Honest eyes, Lutz analyzed instantly. Nervous, but not cowed. She'll do.
"Eliza, this is Mr. Morgan," Mrs. Harlow said, her tone leaving no room for error.
"A pleasure, Miss Eliza," Lutz said, giving a slight bow that was just theatrical enough to be charming without being mocking. "As I told your aunt, I saw your advertisement. I've recently taken up residence at 17 Vesper Lane and find myself in dire need of competent household staff. The place is frightfully empty, and my talents, alas, lie more in commerce than in dusting."
Eliza curtsied. "Sir. I can manage a household, sir. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, marketing. I've helped my aunt manage her boarders for years."
"Splendid!" Lutz exclaimed. "Vesper Lane is a quiet street. The house is large for one man, but I intend to entertain business associates from time to time. The work would be manageable, but I require discretion. My business dealings are… sensitive. I value privacy above all else."
He let the implication hang in the air. He was a man with secrets, and he was paying for silence as much as for service.
"I understand, sir," Eliza said, meeting his gaze steadily. "I am not one for gossip."
"Excellent." Lutz clapped his hands together softly. "Now, to terms. I am prepared to offer a weekly wage of ten Shields, with room and board included, of course. You would have your own quarters on the top floor. One day off a week, naturally."
Mrs. Harlow's intake of breath was audible. It was a generous wage, far above the standard for a single housemaid. It was a wage designed to inspire loyalty and, more importantly, a reluctance to ask difficult questions.
"That… that is more than fair, sir," Eliza said, her composure finally cracking with a look of stunned gratitude.
"Capital! Then we have an agreement." Lutz beamed. "Can you start immediately? The place is furnished, but the larder is barren, and I fear I own little beyond a wardrobe and some fine art. There is much to be done."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
"Wonderful. Gather your things. I shall meet you at the house in an hour." He placed three gold Hammers on the table. "An advance on your wages. Use it to procure a suitable uniform and any personal items you require. Then, here is a further 5 Hammers." He produced the banknotes with a flourish, watching Eliza's eyes go wide as saucers. "I need you to act as my housekeeper and stock the entire house. Food, spices, linens, cleaning supplies—everything a proper household needs. Buy quality. And…" he paused, looking her up and down with a critical but not unkind eye. "…please, buy yourself some new dresses. Something sturdy for work, and something a bit nicer for when you answer the door. You are the face of the House of Morgan, after all. We must present the right image."
Eliza just nodded, speechless, clutching the money as if it were a holy relic.
And with that, Lutz thought as he strode back out into the street, I have acquired the first piece of my cover. A loyal, well-paid, and suitably impressed domestic. The foundation of any respectable noble facade.
An hour later, he was showing a wide-eyed Eliza around 17 Vesper Lane.
"Goodness, sir, it's beautiful," she breathed, running a hand over the polished wood of the new dining table.
"It's a start, Eliza, merely a start," Lutz said in his James Morgan persona, waving a hand dismissively. "My study is there—do not enter unless specifically asked. The kitchen and your room are through there. The basement is locked; it's full of old crates from my family's estate, dreadful boring stuff, paperwork and the like. I'll be the only one managing that."
"Of course, sir."
"Excellent. Off you go then. The city's markets await your conquest!"
Once she had left, a woven market basket over her arm and a determined look on her face, Lutz finally allowed the persona to drop. He retreated to his study, the room with the best light, and sank into the plush leather chair. The silence of the house was no longer empty, but purposeful. It was time to think.
Alright, now, what's the play?
He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen and started scribbling in Romanian.
Find Lorelei.
This was the personal anchor in the storm. The one thread connecting him to a semblance of his past life and a person who represented something other than betrayal and violence. St. Millom was a city of millions. Finding one woman, even a notable Artisan, would be a challenge.
Connection to Acting: Finding her was also the key to integrating into the local Beyonder society. She would have contacts, know about gatherings. This objective dovetailed perfectly with his others.
Integrate into Beyonder Circles & Acquire Swindler potion Ingredients.
This was non-negotiable. Power was survival. He had digested the Marauder potion; he was treading water while sharks circled. He needed to advance.
The Basement Workshop.
His life as a Beyonder couldn't happen in the upstairs parlor. The basement was his sanctuary, his laboratory, his armory. As a Beyonder, his physical abilities were enhanced, but he was still only a Sequence 9, against more powerful foes, he was still a kitten. Gadgets, poisons, traps, and mystical items were his great equalizers.
Method: He needed to acquire alchemical equipment—beakers, retorts, burners, mortars and pestles. But he couldn't just walk into a reputable apothecary and buy it all; that would be remembered. He'd have to piece it together from different sources, perhaps find a disreputable supplier in the poorer districts. He also needed materials: Hides, metals, chemicals, herbs, and the more…
Knowledge Acquisition.
Andrei's academic mind rebelled at his current ignorance. He was playing a game with rules he only dimly understood.
He was fluent in Loenese, Feysac, ancient feysac, Intisian, the tongues of the Gargas and Rorsted archipelago, and finally, Hermes, but what about the ancient languages he couldn't find information about? Jotun? Ancient Hermes? The language of the Elves, is it real?
Biology, chemistry. These were essential for the elaboration of poisons and other machinations that would help him in combat, or even in more subtle operations.
Mysticism, this was the most critical. He needed to understand symbols, rituals, the art of concealment from divination, the proper handling of artifacts. Especially a certain ring that used to be a person, well, two persons. He needed books. Rare, expensive, and likely forbidden books.
Social Integration & Business Venture.
James Morgan couldn't just be a recluse with a maid. He had to be a social creature. This was his hunting ground for the Swindler and his source of intelligence.
He needed a legitimate enterprise. Not just to launder his money and generate more, but to create a web of connections.
The Swindler would require him to deceive, to manipulate, to swindle people out of their riches. What better stage than the cutthroat world of commerce and aristocracy? He could "swindle" corrupt merchants out of ill-gotten gains, "deceive" arrogant nobles into revealing their secrets, "manipulate" entire markets for his own gain and, in his new moral framework, for the greater good. He would become a parasite on the parasitic elite.
He looked over the list.
A month ago, I was a debt-ridden rat in a filthy port, planning a suicide mission against a gang leader, he mused, a cynical smile touching his lips. Now, I'm a wealthy noble in a capital city, planning a suicide mission against… well, everything. Progress, of a sort.
His train of thought was interrupted by the front door opening and closing. Eliza's voice called out, "Mr. Morgan? I'm back!"
Lutz stashed the piece of paper in his desk.
He emerged from the study to find the hallway filling with parcels and bags. Eliza's face was flushed with effort and excitement.
"I procured everything on the list, sir, and I found a butcher who sells the most wonderful sausages, and the grocer had fresh lemons, can you believe it? In this weather!" she chattered, unpacking with efficient movements. She had already changed into a new, dark blue dress of simple but good quality wool.
"You've been a whirlwind, Eliza! Magnificent!" Lutz said, pouring on the charm. "It appears I have hired the right person for the job."
"Thank you, sir. Oh, and I heard some talk at the market. There's to be a soiree at the Hallbrook Residence tomorrow evening. Lord Hallbrook is a prominent merchant, they say. I thought… perhaps you might be interested? For your business connections."
Lutz looked at her, genuinely impressed. She was already thinking like part of his operation. Sharp girl.
"Eliza, you are a treasure. The Hallbrook soiree? Perfect. I shall have to see if I can wangle an invitation." He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "Now, how about you test those wonderful sausages for my dinner? I have some letters to write."
Back in the study, he sat down, the cheerful mask melting away to reveal the cool, calculating strategist beneath.
The first thread, he thought. The web begins. A social event was a perfect starting point. It was a place to be seen, to make connections that could lead to business.