The Hallbrook residence wasn't just a manor; it was a statement carved in marble and lit by a small fortune in gas lamps. As Lutz followed Reeves up the broad, sweeping stairs, the hum of conversation and the scent of perfume, wine, and polished wood grew stronger.
Alright, Lutz thought, adjusting the cuffs of his pastel-amber suit. The lion's den. Try not to get eaten.
Reeves, puffing out his chest, gave his name to the stone-faced footmen at the door, adding with a flourish, "And my guest, Mr. James Morgan, newly of Vesper Lane." They were waved through.
The ballroom was a kaleidoscope of wealth. Crystals dripped from chandeliers, catching the light and throwing it back onto silks, satins, and jewels. Men stood in clusters, glasses in hand, their laughter a little too loud, their smiles a little too fixed. Women sat on velvet couches, fans fluttering, their eyes constantly moving, assessing.
'God, it's like a market where everyone's selling themselves and nobody's buying' Lutz mused, keeping a pleasantly vacant smile on his face. Just a sea of performative geniality. I feel right at home.
"Now, James, stick close," Reeves murmured, steering him through the crowd. "See that man with the impressive waistcoat and the utterly unimpressed expression? That's Jonathan Marc, no relation to my late business, a major player in northern timber. And the woman he's ignoring? That's his fourth wife, I believe. Or is it his fifth?"
They moved from one cluster to another. Reeves would make the introductions with theatrical gusto. "Lord Faust, may I present Mr. James Morgan, a man of vision and capital, newly arrived from the south! James, Lord Faust's family owns half the shipping lanes in the harbor."
"A pleasure, my lord," Lutz would say, offering a perfect bow, his tone dripping with respectful admiration. "Your reputation precedes you. The efficiency of your fleet is the stuff of legend in my former home."
It was all surface-level, empty pleasantries. A dance of names and titles. Lutz played his part flawlessly, the charming, slightly-overawed new noble. But as they navigated the room, a faint, prickling sensation crawled up his spine. A feeling of being watched. His instincts, honed in the alleys of Indaw, sent a quiet alarm. He let his gaze drift casually across the room, but saw nothing out of the ordinary—just a hundred faces locked in their own performances. Probably just paranoia, he told himself, brushing it off.
Finally, they reached a slightly less formal grouping near a large potted fern. "Ah, my people!" Reeves announced proudly. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce the man of the hour, James Morgan! James, this is Ivor, in textiles like myself, and Filip, our resident genius with all things mechanical, and over there, deep in thought as always, is Sven, who can make money disappear and reappear in your pocket like magic."
Ivor, a man with a tired face and a weak handshake, offered a nod. Filip, a younger man with bright, energetic eyes and ink stains on his cuffs, looked up with interest. Sven, lean and sharp-eyed, merely gave Lutz a slow, appraising look from over the rim of his glass before turning his attention back to the crowd.
Reeves, having delivered his prize, was quickly drawn away by another acquaintance, leaving Lutz alone with the trio.
"A pleasure," Lutz began, turning on the charm. "Edmund speaks so highly of you all. He says you're the true engines of commerce in St. Millom."
Ivor gave a noncommittal grunt. "Reeves talks too much. So, Morgan. South. What brings you north? Running from the weather or your creditors?" His tone was blunt, his eyes skeptical. The experienced merchant saw right through the frivolous noble act to the potential liability underneath.
Lutz laughed, a light, airy sound. "The weather, mostly! And the opportunities. The south is… too traditional. St. Millom feels like the future."
He tried to engage Ivor on textile patterns and Loenish wool tariffs, but the man's responses were curt, dismissive. He was a dead end. Sven, the financier, was even worse. When Lutz tentatively mentioned "volatile markets," Sven just smirked and said, "The market is only volatile for those who can't read it," before pointedly turning his back.
'Well, that's a solid brick wall' Lutz thought, his smile never wavering. 'These old hounds can smell a fake a mile away. Time to try the pups.'
He turned his attention to Filip, the inventor. The man was fidgeting with a component in his pocket, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"So, Filip, was it? Edmund mentioned you're a man of mechanics. I've always been fascinated. The application of force, the reduction of friction… it's the poetry of progress."
Filip's eyes lit up. "You think so? Most people just see greasy cogs. They don't understand the elegance!"
"Elegance is the word!" Lutz agreed, leaning in conspiratorially. "You know, where I'm from, they're still using counterweights for everything. Crude, inefficient. I've often thought about the potential of… stored force. Compressed air, you see? A contained, controllable power source that could be released on demand. Far more responsive than steam for smaller applications."
Filip stopped fidgeting. He stared at Lutz as if he'd just spoken a sacred truth. "Compressed… air? Contained? The valving alone would be a challenge, but the principle…" He launched into a technical ramble about pressure differentials and piston design.
Lutz nodded along, understanding about one word in three, he was no engineer, but interjecting with just enough modern knowledge was enough to sound like a visionary. "Precisely! And imagine applying that principle to… oh, I don't know, a tool for construction. Something that could drive a nail into hard wood with a single, precise burst of force. No hammer, no missed swings."
Filip's jaw practically hit the floor. "A… a nail-driving device? Powered by air? Morgan, that's… that could revolutionize shipbuilding! Carpentry!" He grabbed Lutz's arm, his excitement palpable. "I have to sketch this! We must talk more!"
"Of course!" Lutz said, extracting his arm with a gracious smile. "I'm at 17 Vesper Lane. I'd be very interested in discussing potential investment if you can draft a viable prototype. I have a feeling about you, Filip."
He handed the starry-eyed inventor a pre-prepared card with his James Morgan address.
Emboldened, he decided to take another swing at the aloof Sven. The financier was now observing the room with the detached air of a predator.
"Mr. Sven," Lutz began, his tone more measured now, less frivolous noble and more thoughtful businessman. "A moment of your time?"
Sven didn't turn. "Is it going to be more poetic talk about machinery?"
"No," Lutz said. "It's about information. And the illusion of scarcity."
That got his attention. Sven slowly turned his head, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Go on."
"You watch the crowd," Lutz said, gesturing subtly. "You see patterns. Who's talking to whom. Who's avoiding whom. It's a living map of influence and desperation. But it's a map everyone here can read, to some degree. The real value isn't in what happens in this room. It's in what happens in the thousands of homes and shops outside it."
Sven took a slow sip of his wine. "A philosophical observation. Not very profitable."
"It is if you can quantify it," Lutz countered, his mind racing, pulling from Andrei's memories of economic theory, a class he didn't fancy back on earth. "Imagine if you could track, not the major shipments of timber or grain, but the small, everyday purchases. The price of bread in the Kholm Quarter one week, the demand for cheap coal the next. The collective behavior of the masses. It would be a leading indicator, a pulse. You'd see a drought coming not when the big farmers report, but when the price of root vegetables in the common markets begins to creep up weeks earlier. You'd see a shift in manufacturing not when the quarterly reports are published, but when the toolmakers start ordering a different type of steel."
He was winging it, but he could see the gears turning behind Sven's eyes. The financier was no longer looking at the crowd; he was staring at Lutz, his expression unreadable but intensely focused.
"You're talking about… aggregating insignificant data," Sven said slowly. "A monumental task. Pointless."
"Is it?" Lutz pressed, a confident smile playing on his lips. "Or is it the one piece of the puzzle everyone else ignores because it's too noisy, too mundane? The big moves are telegraphed in the small ones first. The trick isn't gathering the data—it's knowing what to listen for in the noise. It's about hearing the whisper before it becomes a roar."
He let the idea hang in the air between them. He hadn't proposed a business; he'd proposed a paradigm shift. It was a gamble, appealing to a man who clearly thought himself smarter than everyone else in the room.
Sven was silent for a long moment, his gaze dissecting Lutz. The frivolous noble was gone, replaced by someone who had just proposed a terrifyingly insightful, if nebulous, concept.
Finally, Sven reached into his own waistcoat and produced a simple, stark white card. He handed it to Lutz. It had only a name—Sven—and an address in the financial district.
"An… interesting theory, Mr. Morgan," Sven said, his voice low. "Perhaps we will speak again. When you have something more than just noise."
Lutz took the card, his heart beating a steady, triumphant rhythm in his chest.
He had successfully made connections two very different men. One with a tangible idea from the future, and the other with a grand, abstract concept of predictive analysis. He had his first two real contacts in St. Millom.
Lutz snagged a glass of deep red wine from a passing servant's tray. The first sip was a revelation. After months of cheap ale and rotgut whiskey, the complex, fruity notes were a balm to his soul. He allowed himself a genuine moment of pleasure, leaning against a pillar and observing the circus.
'Okay, maybe high society has one or two redeeming qualities' he conceded internally. 'The alcohol is definitely one of them.'
He was on his second sip when Reeves bustled back over, his face flushed with excitement and good champagne. "Morgan! There you are. How did you find my little circle? A sharp bunch, eh?"
"Exceptionally so, Edmund," Lutz replied, easily slipping back into the James Morgan cadence. "Filip is a veritable fountain of ideas, and Sven… well, he has a formidable intellect. Thank you again for the introduction."
Reeves beamed, as if personally responsible for their talents. "Think nothing of it! It's all about connec—" He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening. "Ah. He's making the rounds."
Lutz followed his gaze. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of silver hair and a beard trimmed to a sharp point was moving through the crowd. He wasn't just walking; he was processing. His attire was a masterpiece of understated majesty—a deep carbon grey tailcoat with a chromatic gem in the chest, no jewelry save for a single, heavy signet ring. He had penetrating golden eyes. This was Lord Hallbrook. Where he passed, conversations hushed, then resumed with renewed, slightly frantic energy. He was the sun around which this particular solar system revolved.
"He's coming this way," Reeves whispered, a nervous tremor in his voice. He quickly straightened his own waistcoat and put on a look of rapt attention.
Sure enough, Hallbrook's path brought him to their little island near the potted fern. Reeves practically bowed.
"Lord Hallbrook! A magnificent evening, sir. If I may, I'd like to present my new neighbor, Mr. James Morgan, lately of the south. James, Lord Hallbrook."
Lutz offered a respectful, but not obsequious, nod. He met the man's gaze steadily. "My lord. It's an honor. Your home is as impressive as your reputation."
Hallbrook's eyes, the color of chilled fire, swept over Lutz. It was a quick, efficient assessment—the quality of the suit, the posture, the tone of voice. He gave a single, slow nod and offered a hand. The handshake was firm, dry, and utterly impersonal.
"Mr. Morgan," he acknowledged, his voice a low rumble. "Welcome to St. Millom." And with that, he moved on, his attention already shifting to the next cluster of guests.
Reeves let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a minute. "There! You've been acknowledged! That's more than most get on their first outing."
"He's… formidable," Lutz said, taking a fortifying sip of wine. 'He's strange, there's a mystical pressure in his presence, definitely a Beyonder.'
"That's Lord Kernel Hallbrook," Reeves explained, his voice still hushed with reverence. "Head of the Merchant Consortium. The most powerful man in St. Millom who doesn't have a hereditary title from the crown."