"Merchant Consortium?" Lutz asked, feigning curiosity.
"Oh, it's the heart of everything!" Reeves gushed. "They're the ones who truly keep the city's blood flowing. Look, over there." He subtly gestured towards a raised, semi-private alcove at the far end of the ballroom. It was furnished with the best couches and had its own dedicated servants. Hallbrook had now joined the five people already seated there.
"See them?" Reeves whispered. "The five other tenets of the Consortium. With Hallbrook at the head, they are the high council of commerce in this city."
He pointed them out one by one.
"The grim-faced fellow with the ledger already in his hand? That's Sven's actual boss, Lord Kaspar Volkov. He doesn't trade in goods; he trades in money itself. He controls the flow of capital, the stock market, the loans. If he frowns, businesses wither and die by noon."
Lutz saw a gaunt, severe man with hollow cheeks, his fingers constantly moving as if calculating invisible numbers.
"Next to him, the one who looks like he could bend an iron bar with his bare hands? That's Boris 'The Anvil' Petrov. He owns the foundries, the machine shops, half the patents on heavy machinery in the city. If it's made of metal and has moving parts, Petrov has a hand in it."
Petrov was a bull of a man, his tailored suit straining over his shoulders, a thick cigar clamped between his teeth as he listened to Volkov.
"And the woman, the one with the smile that doesn't reach her eyes? That's Lady Anya Zaytseva. Perfumes, cosmetics, soaps, all the luxuries that make life… fragrant. She has a monopoly on vanity, and she makes a fortune from it."
Lady Zaytseva was impeccably dressed in icy blue silk, her face a mask of perfect, ageless beauty, her gaze as warm as a midwinter frost.
"Then you have Lord Fyodor Orlov," Reeves continued, indicating a man with a jovial, round face and a laughing demeanor. "Don't let the act fool you. He controls the food. The grain shipments from the south, the fisheries, the slaughterhouses. He decides if the city eats well or goes hungry, and he prices his goods accordingly."
Finally, he pointed to a slender, nervous-looking man who kept adjusting his cravat. "And that's Pavel Kuznetsov. Textiles, shipping logistics, warehousing. He's the one who gets everyone else's goods from here to there. A spider in a web of cargo manifests and shipping lanes."
As Reeves spoke, painting a picture of power and prestige, Lutz's mind was doing something entirely different. The James Morgan persona melted away, replaced by the cold, analytical engine of Lutz Fischer and the cynical worldview of Andrei Hayes.
He wasn't seeing titans of industry. He was seeing a gallery of predators.
Lord Volkov, he thought, watching the gaunt man. The money-lender. The one who keeps the working man in perpetual debt, who forecloses on families, who profits from desperation. His 'flow of capital' is a stranglehold.
His eyes shifted to Boris Petrov. The Anvil. Right. I bet his hardworking men are paid in scraps while he gets rich off their labor and they get silver or mercury poisoning. Probably fights safety regulations tooth and nail. How many men have been maimed in his factories for the sake of profit?
He looked at Lady Zaytseva's perfect, frozen smile. Sells dreams in a bottle while the women who mix her chemicals probably can't afford to buy a bar of her cheapest soap. Preys on insecurity. Evil wrapped in pretty paper.
Lord Orlov, the jovial food magnate, now seemed grotesque. He plays with the price of bread. He creates artificial scarcity to drive up costs. He gets fat while children in the Kholm Quarter go to bed with hollow bellies. A merchant of hunger.
And finally, Pavel Kuznetsov, the logistician. The silent throttler. He decides what gets through and what 'gets lost'. Probably runs a thriving side business in smuggling and insurance fraud. The invisible hand that pilfers from every shipment.
A cold, hard certainty settled in Lutz's gut. These weren't just powerful people to be navigated. These were the very embodiment of the scum he had vowed to take. They weren't cartoonish villains; they were systemic ones, their cruelty woven into the very fabric of the city's economy. They were protected by law, by wealth, by an army of sycophants like Reeves.
And he couldn't touch them. Not yet.
The thought was a physical ache. He had the will, he had the nerve, but as a Sequence 9 Marauder, he was a mosquito trying to bring down a bull. He could maybe steal from one, cause a minor inconvenience. But to truly dismantle their power? He needed more. He needed the cunning, the silver tongue, the psychological manipulation of a Swindler.
He took a long, slow drink of his wine, the pleasant taste now ash in his mouth. He forced a smile back onto his face for Reeves's benefit.
"Fascinating, Edmund. Truly. It makes one realize how much… work there is to be done to find one's place."
Reeves clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit! It's a ladder, my boy! A long, long ladder."
No, Lutz thought, his eyes fixed on the alcove of power. It's not a ladder, these people would never let you climb up to their place. It's a fortress. And I'm not here to climb it. I'm here to breach the walls. But first, he needed a better set of tools.
After looking at the group for a while, sipping on his wine and chatting with Reeves, he felt it again.
The prickling sensation returned, a cold needle tracing a path between his shoulder blades. This time, Lutz didn't brush it off. He took a slow, casual sip of his wine and let his gaze drift across the ballroom, a man merely admiring the scenery.
His eyes found her near a grand marble column, partially obscured by the shifting crowd. A woman with a sweep of stunning white hair, styled in an elegant, timeless coil. She stood with an innate, unshakeable poise, her figure exquisite in a gown of deep emerald silk that whispered of immense wealth and quiet taste. Her face was a study in delicate, sharp lines, with just the faintest tracery of lines at the corners of her eyes to attest to her years—somewhere in her forties, he guessed, but it was a number that seemed irrelevant. Her expression was serious, almost cold, but it was her eyes that held him—a pair of penetrating, vivid green gems that were currently looking directly at him.
The moment their eyes met, she turned her head with a fluid, unhurried grace, as if she had merely been scanning the room and he was a piece of furniture that had briefly fallen within her field of vision. The dismissal was absolute and utterly masterful.
Okay, that was no accident, Lutz thought, his internal analyst kicking into high gear. She was definitely watching. And she's very good at pretending she wasn't, it took me all the way up until now to realize it was her.
He nudged Reeves, who was happily finishing a canapé. "Edmund, who is that? The woman by the column with the white hair. In the green dress."
Reeves followed his gaze and his eyebrows shot up. "Ah! Of course, you wouldn't know. That's our neighbor, Mrs. Adelheid. From Number 11."
Adelheid. The name from the dry, polite note. The closed door.
"A widow," Reeves continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Her husband passed some years ago. Left her a vast fortune, but she's no simple socialite. She's… well, she's Adelheid. Very private. Operates on multiple fronts in the market—some shipping, some small investments in Volkov's ventures, a few properties. Never makes a loud noise, but the deals always seem to go her way. She rarely comes to these things. Her presence alone is a statement."
Multiple fronts. Deals always go her way. The description painted a picture of a spider in a web of her own making, far more subtle than the blustering titans in the alcove.
So why is she looking at me? Lutz pondered, taking another sip of wine. She made her disinterest perfectly clear with that note. A strategic deployment of gifts, she called it. She saw through the 'James Morgan' act faster than anyone else. So why the scrutiny now?
The possibilities unfolded in his mind like a deck of cards.
Curiosity, he was a new variable on her street. She was observing, as she likely observed everything.
Suspicion, she had sharper instincts than Reeves and was trying to figure out what his game was.
Interest, not the romantic kind, he suspected—though she was undeniably striking. It was the interest of a chess player who has spotted a new, unconventional piece on the board.
Whatever the reason, it was a clear signal. Adelheid was not part of the background noise. She was a distinct, separate variable, and one he needed to understand. A woman that sharp, that observant, could be a formidable obstacle or an incredibly valuable, if dangerous, ally.
The rest of the soiree passed in a blur of practiced smiles, firm handshakes, and bland conversation. He circulated, a charming ghost, making small talk about the unseasonable cold and the quality of the champagne. He ate a few delicate pastries and tasted a glass of exquisite sparkling wine. It was all part of the performance, layering the legend of the harmless nouveau riche, over the reality of Lutz Fischer, the aspiring architect of ruin.
When the event finally began to wind down, he found Reeves, who was looking immensely pleased with himself.
"Capital evening, James, capital! You made quite an impression!"
"All thanks to you, Edmund," Lutz said, clapping him on the shoulder with perfect camaraderie. "I couldn't have asked for a better guide."
The carriage ride back was filled with Reeves's cheerful post-game analysis, which Lutz endured with nods and agreeable noises. As they pulled up to Vesper Lane, the silence of the sleeping street was a welcome relief.
"Until next time, my boy!" Reeves boomed before his carriage clattered away.
Lutz let himself into the dark, quiet house. Everything was in order. A quick check confirmed Eliza was fast asleep. The performance was over. He shed the pastel-amber suit like a snake shedding its skin, hung it up with care, and stood under a hot shower, washing away the scent of perfume, cigar smoke, and false bonhomie.
As he lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his mind wasn't on Lord Hallbrook's power or Boris Petrov's factories. It was on a pair of penetrating green eyes and a sweep of white hair. A cool, calculating gaze that had seen something in him worth watching.
Why are you looking, Adelheid? he thought, the question echoing in the quiet of his room. And what exactly did you see?
With that unresolved puzzle lingering, sleep finally pulled him under.