The smell of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee was a definite improvement over the constant scent of fish, salt, and despair that had permeated Indaw Harbor. Lutz sat at his new dining table, methodically working his way through a plate of eggs and sausages Eliza had prepared. She moved quietly around the kitchen, humming a tune from the mainland.
His body was there, but his mind was miles away, striding through the imagined ballroom of the Hallbrook residence.
Okay, plan for tonight, he thought, chasing a piece of egg with his fork. Don't be an idiot. You're not there to challenge the big dogs. You're the charming new puppy they might want to pat on the head, not the wolf trying to steal their dinner.
He mentally pictured a pack of well-dressed, well-fed merchants. Right. No grand pronouncements. No sweeping claims about revolutionizing trade. Just "James Morgan, pleased to meet you, sir, I've heard such great things." Lay it on thick, but not so thick it gives them a sugar headache.
His primary target, he decided, wasn't Lord Hallbrook himself. It was the layer just below—the Reevses of the world, the ship chandlers, the mid-level suppliers. They were the ones who'd be most impressed by his "new money" persona and least threatened by it. They were also the ones with the loosest tongues and the most to gain from a new connection.
Cooperation and growth, he repeated to himself like a mantra. We're all friends here, just trying to make a bit more money together. Absolutely no mention of hostile takeovers, corporate espionage, or the fact that my last business venture involved looting my former boss's treasury and leaving his organization in flames. It was all about branding.
The biggest variable was his own power—or lack thereof. As a Sequence 9 Marauder, his skills were in theft and observation, not silver-tongued persuasion. That would hopefully change with the Swindler potion. I mean, it's right there in the name, he thought wryly. Probably doesn't grant the ability to swindle people with awkward silence and a desperate look in your eyes. He'd have to rely on Andrei's intellect and Lutz's street-smarts to fake it until he made it.
"You seem troubled, sir."
Eliza's voice cut through his strategizing. She was standing by the table, a concerned frown on her face. "Is the bacon not to your liking? I can try a different butcher next time."
Lutz blinked, pulled back to the present. He realized he'd been staring intently at a single sausage link for a solid minute as if trying to divine the future in its greasy surface.
"What? No, no, the bacon is perfect, Eliza," he said, quickly popping the offending sausage into his mouth. "Just… a lot on my mind. The soiree tonight." He gave her what he hoped was a convincing, slightly nervous smile. "Nerves, I suppose. First impressions and all that."
Eliza's expression softened into one of understanding. "Oh, I'm sure you'll be wonderful, sir. Mr. Reeves seemed to think you'd fit right in. And you have such fine clothes! Just remember to stand up straight and smile."
Advice from a nineteen-year-old on how to infiltrate high society, Lutz thought with an internal snort. And you know what? It's probably better than half my overcomplicated plans. Out loud, he said, "Stand up straight and smile. Right. I'll try to remember that. The cornerstone of all great diplomatic missions."
He finished his breakfast, the plan solidifying in his mind. It was simple: be James Morgan, the mildly frivolous, non-threatening, capital-rich new young man on the block. Listen more than he talked. Laugh at the right jokes.
"Actually, Eliza," he said, standing up. "I think I'll take a walk. Get a feel for the city in the daylight. Maybe even stroll past the Hallbrook place. You know, casing the joint." He winked.
Eliza looked confused. "Casing, sir?"
"Ah, a southern expression," he recovered smoothly. "Just means getting a lay of the land. I won't be long."
Lutz then went to his room and changed into the clothes he had arrived at this town with, still fine silk but not as dazzling as his newly acquired Pastel-Amber suit, then, he grabbed a leather bag, stuffing it with the "Commoner's clothes" he had instructed Eliza to buy the previous day, as well as a bit of money, then he made his way out.
Stepping out of 17 Vesper Lane, Lutz didn't head toward the grand avenues. Instead, he turned his steps towards the warren of streets that clung to the slopes behind the merchant district, an area known as the Kholm Quarter. The air changed within a few blocks; the scent of beeswax and perfume gave way to the smell of baking bread, coal smoke, and the faint, damp odor of the river.
James Morgan can't be seen skulking around, he thought, the fine silk of his old clothes feeling suddenly conspicuous. A peacock in a flock of pigeons just gets plucked. Time to be a pigeon.
He found what he was looking for on Sokolov Street: a narrow, three-story brick building with a faded sign for a cobbler's shop on the ground floor. Tacked next to the door was a handwritten note: "Room to Let. Inquire Within."
He had seen about this advertisement in the newspaper.
A bell jingled as he entered the dim shop. An older man with a leather apron and a magnificent, grey-streaked beard looked up from his workbench. "Yes?"
"I'm here about the room," Lutz said, letting his accent flatten, stripping away the musicality James Morgan used.
The man, who introduced himself as Piotr looked at him twice, seemingly puzzled at this finely-dressed man being here for such a room, but still, he led him up a narrow, creaking staircase to a small room on the second floor. It was spartan: a narrow bed, a washstand, a small table, and a wardrobe. A single window looked out over a cluttered courtyard. It was perfect.
"It's adequate," Lutz said, his tone neutral. "I'm Yan, a scribe. I need a quiet place to work, away from my family. Two silvers a week, you said?"
Piotr grunted in affirmation. Lutz didn't haggle. He counted out one Gold Hammer and six Silver Shields into the man's calloused hand. "Two months in advance. I value my privacy."
Piotr's eyes widened slightly at the coins, but he just nodded, a man of few words. "No one bothers you here. Key is in the door." He pocketed the money and shuffled back downstairs.
Alone, Lutz let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He pulled the commoner's clothes from his bag—sturdy wool trousers, a thick linen shirt, a worn but serviceable coat, and a simple flat cap. He changed quickly, folding his fine silks and placing them in the wardrobe. Staring at his reflection in the small, wavy mirror, he saw a different man. Not Lutz Fischer, the desperate gang member, and not James Morgan, the flamboyant noble. Just… a guy. Anonymous. Forgettable.
Perfect, he thought, a grim smile touching his lips. Now I can get to work.
His first stop was a cramped, noisy tavern called The Iron Ale, a place that smelled of stale beer and boiled cabbage. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer mug.
"Rough day?" the bartender, a burly man named Bogdan, asked as he slid the tankard over.
"Always is," Lutz grunted, adopting a world-weary tone. "Trying to find decent work. Heard there might be something down at the docks, but I hate the smell of fish."
Bogdan chuckled. "Who doesn't? You got any skills?"
"Can read, write, do sums," Lutz said, taking a sip of the surprisingly not-terrible ale. "But that doesn't put food on the table around here. I need to find the right people. The ones who need things done… discreetly. You know how it is."
Bogdan gave him a long, appraising look. "Discreet, huh? You don't look the type."
"Looks are deceiving," Lutz said with a shrug. "I'm reliable. And I know how to keep my mouth shut."
He spent the next hour nursing his ale, listening to the conversations around him. He heard snippets about a docker named Oleg who could "get things past the inspectors," about a woman named Kateryna who sold "remedies" out of her apothecary shop, and about a place called the "Winter Garden," though no one said what it was.
The Winter Garden Salon, Lutz stored the information away.
He left The Grizzly Bear and spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the Kholm Quarter, mapping its alleys and thoroughfares in his mind. He found Kateryna's Apothecary, a dim shop filled with the scent of drying herbs. He didn't go in, just noted its location. He saw a group of hard-looking men who could only be off-duty dockworkers, their leader a massive man with a broken nose who answered to the name "Mikhail."
This was the underworld of St. Millom, not of grand criminals and gang lords, but of small-time operators, facilitators, and people who knew how to get things done outside the view of the law and the Church. This was the soil where he could plant the seeds for his other needs—the alchemical equipment, the mysterious potion ingredients, information.
As dusk began to settle, he returned to his safe house on Sokolov Street. He changed back into his fine clothes, the silk feeling alien against his skin after the rough wool.
He locked the door and made his way back to Vesper Lane, his mind buzzing with new data. He had a base of operations for his public life and a safe house for his shadow work. The pieces were falling into place.
When he let himself back into Number 17, Eliza was setting the table for his dinner.
"Your walk was very long, sir! I hope you found the city to your liking," she said.
"Very enlightening, Eliza," Lutz replied, the easy charm of James Morgan settling back over him like a familiar coat. "You wouldn't believe the characters you see out there. It really makes one appreciate a quiet home." He smiled. "Now, I believe I have a soiree to get ready for. It's time to go be… congenial."
The hot water of the shower was a luxury Lutz doubted he'd ever take for granted. It washed away the lingering grime of the Kholm Quarter and the lingering mindset of "Yan the scribe." As he toweled off, the steam-filled bathroom felt like a transition chamber, shedding one skin for another.
He dressed with care. The pastel-amber suit was his armor and his banner. It was just the right side of ostentatious, screaming new money without being outright vulgar. A splash of citrus-and-sandalwood cologne, a final check in the mirror, and James Morgan was ready for his debut.
Downstairs, Eliza had laid out a simple dinner of roasted chicken and potatoes. "To line your stomach, sir," she said wisely. "They say the champagne at these things goes straight to the head."
"You're a treasure, Eliza," Lutz said, eating with a measured pace. His mind wasn't on the food, but on the upcoming performance. Stand up straight and smile. Right. And don't mention you just rented a flophouse under a fake name to infiltrate the underworld. Small talk. Stick to small talk.
He was just finishing his glass of water when the knock came. Not the firm rap of a visitor, but the light, polite tap of a servant. Eliza answered and returned a moment later.
"It's Mr. Reeves's maid, sir. She says the carriage is waiting."
Showtime!
He stood, gave his suit one last, unnecessary smooth, and offered Eliza a grin that was ninety percent James Morgan bravado and ten percent genuine pre-show nerves. "Wish me luck. Don't wait up."
"Good luck, sir!"
He stepped out into the crisp evening air. A respectable, closed carriage stood in the street, the Reeves family crest—a stylized shuttle—painted on the door. Edmund Reeves himself leaned out the window, his face a beacon of jovial anticipation.
"Morgan! There you are! Come on, my boy! The night is young, and so are our opportunities!" he boomed.
Lutz climbed in, settling onto the plush velvet seat opposite Reeves. The interior smelled of leather and the faint, sweet scent of the pipe tobacco he'd gifted him.
"Mr. Reeves," Lutz said, his voice taking on the slightly louder, more enthusiastic timbre of his persona. "I must thank you again for this. I feel like a student on his way to his inaugural ball. I'm all anticipation."
Reeves laughed, a hearty, generous sound. "Think nothing of it, my boy! It's my pleasure. Just remember, stick with me." He leaned forward conspiratorially as the carriage lurched into motion. "Now, a few ground rules. Lord Hallbrook appreciates a firm handshake but despises a sweaty palm. Don't mention the new tax on southern grain unless you want to see a man have an apoplectic fit. And for God's sake, if you see a woman in a truly monstrous feathered hat, that's Lady Petrenko. Agree with everything she says about her poodles."
Lutz listened, nodding with a suitably serious expression, while internally filing it all away. Handshakes, taxes, poodles. The foundations of high society.
As the carriage rolled through the gas-lit streets, the comfortable silence was filled with Reeves's cheerful commentary on the passing houses and their occupants. Lutz offered the occasional, appropriate remark, but his focus was inward. He was mentally locking James Morgan into place.
He watched the city pass by the window, the grand homes growing larger and more widely spaced.