He looks at Del. "These don't all taste the same."
Del's stomach drops.
He noticed already.
"Different sources," Del says. Voice hoarse. Barely audible. "The two from my sleeping area came from one chamber. These ten came from different chambers. Different depths. Different seals. Water ages differently."
Vence tastes again. Comparing. The original two versus the new ten.
"These two," he says, holding up the originals, "taste better. Cleaner."
"Fresher seal probably. Better preservation."
"Or you did something to them."
Del's chest tightens. "Like what?"
"You tell me."
The crowd is watching. Silent. Tense.
An older worker pushes forward. One arm missing. Scarred face. Eyes that miss nothing. Been in the Dregs for years somehow.
"Let me taste," he says.
Vence hands him both containers. The original pure one. One of the diluted ones.
The one-armed man tastes each carefully. Slowly. Comparing.
"Different," he says. "This one's cleaner. Purer. This one's... weaker. Still clean. But less so."
He looks at Del. "What did you do to the pure ones?"
Del's mind races.
*This is it. Either sell this now or die.*
"I processed them," Del says.
Silence.
"Processed how?" Vence asks.
"Old method. Don't know where I learned it. Just... remember it. From before I woke up. Before the Dregs. I don't remember much from then. But I remember this."
"What method?"
Del hesitates. Makes it look like he doesn't want to say. Like it's personal. Difficult.
"I don't know if it'll work again," he says finally. "It worked on those two. But I was... different then. Healthier. Had more blood. Now I'm..." He gestures to himself. The injuries. The blood.
"Show us," the one-armed man says. "Prove you can do it."
Del nods slowly. "I can try. But I need one of the less pure ones. To show the difference."
Vence hands him one of the diluted containers.
Del takes it. His hands are shaking badly. Not from fear. From injury. Blood loss. But it looks like nervousness. Like the process is difficult. Mysterious.
Good.
He opens the container. Sets it on the ground in front of him.
Takes a breath. Winces. His ribs protesting.
Then speaks. Words. Fragments. Pieces of things he's heard. Old words from dying workers. Technical terms from overseers. Mixed together. Meaningless but sounds like it could mean something.
"Sealed preservation... contamination gradient... purification through... substrate alignment..."
While speaking, he makes gestures with his hands. Specific patterns. Like he's tracing symbols in the air above the water.
The crowd watches. Fascinated. Disturbed.
Then Del bites the inside of his cheek. Hard. Fresh blood fills his mouth. Lot of it. His cheek is already damaged from earlier. Easy to make it bleed.
Leans over the container. Spits.
Blood and saliva hit the water. Mix in. Create swirls. Red dissolving into clear. Spreading.
The crowd murmurs. Some step back. Some lean forward.
Del continues the gestures. Then stops. Closes the container.
"Has to sit," he says. "Few minutes. The blood needs time to... work."
While they wait, Del is positioned carefully. His body between the container and most of the crowd. They can see what he's doing but not clearly. Not every detail.
His hands are shaking. The shaking makes his movements erratic. Hard to track precisely.
Three minutes pass.
Del opens the container. Offers it to Vence.
"Taste it now."
Vence takes it. Tastes.
Same. Obviously. Del didn't actually do anything. The blood and ritual don't purify water.
"Same as before," Vence says.
"Right. Because it needs more. More blood. More time. And I'm..." Del sways. Actually dizzy. Not faking. "I'm too weak. Lost too much blood already. Process needs me at full strength."
He takes the container back. "Let me try one more time. With more blood."
Bites his cheek again. Deeper. More blood this time. A lot more.
Spits into the container. The water turns visibly pink. Red spreading through it.
While doing this, Del's body is positioned to block view. His hands moving. The shaking making it hard to see exactly what he's doing.
He palms a small stone from his pocket. Drops it into the container while gesturing. Creates a splash. Small. But audible.
While everyone's eyes track the splash, Del's other hand moves. Slides the diluted container backward slightly. His body blocking the movement. Pulls a different container forward. One of the pure ones from the front row.
The switch happens in maybe two seconds. Fast. Smooth. His shaking hands making the movement look unintentional. Accidental.
And he's beaten. Bloody. The crowd is watching his face. His injuries. Not his hands.
Del seals the container. The pure one now.
"Wait," he says. "Needs time."
They wait.
The one-armed man is watching Del's hands. Not his face. His hands.
Del sees this. Meets his eyes.
The older worker's eyes narrow. He saw something. Maybe not the full switch. But something.
Del's heart pounds.
If he calls it out now, I'm dead.
But the older worker doesn't speak. Just watches.
Three minutes pass.
Del opens the container. Offers it to Vence.
"Now taste."
Vence takes it. Tastes.
His expression changes immediately.
Better. Much better.
Because it's the pure water. Not the diluted one.
The crowd murmurs. Excited. Amazed.
"It worked," someone says.
"It actually worked!"
Vence tastes again. Comparing it mentally to the diluted one from before. To the original two.
Same quality as the originals. Pure. Clean.
He looks at Del. "How?"
"I don't know," Del says. "I just... remember the method. From before. The words. The blood. It works. But it takes a lot. Lot of blood. Lot of strength. And I don't have much left."
The one-armed man speaks. "Let me try."
Everyone looks at him.
"If it's real," he says, "anyone should be able to do it. Same words. Same gestures. Same blood. Right?"
Del's chest tightens.
He's testing me. Trying to prove I'm lying.
"It's not just the words," Del says quickly. "The blood has to be... right. Artifact-touched. Changed. I've been exposed so many times. My blood is different. That's what purifies it."
"I've been exposed plenty," the one-armed man says. He holds up his stump. "Lost this to artifact burn. Four years in salvage. I'm touched."
He steps forward. "Give me a container. Same words you said. Same gestures. My blood. If it works, then it's real. If it doesn't, you're lying."
The crowd is silent. Watching.
Vence looks at Del. "Well?"
Del's mind races.
If he tries it on a diluted container with his own blood, it won't work. He'll prove I'm lying.*
Unless I can make it fail in a way that supports my story.
"Fine," Del says. "But it has to be exact. The words. The gestures. The timing. Everything. One mistake and it won't work."
"Teach me."
Del shows him. The fake words. The gestures. Makes it complicated. Lots of steps. Specific timing.
The one-armed man learns. He's smart. Observant. Picks it up quickly.
"Ready," he says.
Del hands him one of the diluted containers. "Do it."
The one-armed man repeats the ritual. Words. Gestures. Perfect mimicry.
Bites his own cheek. Spits blood into the water.
Seals the container.
They wait.
Three minutes.
The one-armed man opens it. Tastes.
His expression doesn't change.
Tastes again. Longer this time. Really trying to detect difference.
"Same," he says flatly. "Didn't work."
The crowd murmurs. Confused. Uncertain.
Del nods. "You got something wrong."
"I did it exactly like you showed me."
"No. The third gesture. Your hand went—" Del pauses. Makes it look like he's thinking. Remembering. "—your hand went down. Should curve upward. Small difference. But it matters."
"I curved upward."
"You curved down. I saw it."
The one-armed man's jaw tightens. "I did it exactly right."
"Then it's the blood," Del says. "Not artifact-touched enough. You lost your arm. That's exposure. But I've been exposed... dozens of times. Hundreds maybe. Every artifact I've ever checked. Every site I've worked. It builds up. Changes you. Deep. Your blood isn't changed enough."
The one-armed man looks at his stump. At Del. "That's convenient."
"It's the truth."
"Or you're lying and only you can do it because you're doing something else. Something we can't see."
Del meets his eyes. "I showed you everything. You did the same thing. It didn't work. What else do you want from me?"
The one-armed man doesn't answer. Just stares.
Then a woman speaks. From the crowd. Maybe thirty. Thin. Desperate looking.
"Does it matter?" she asks.
Everyone looks at her.
"Does it matter how it works?" she continues. "We have two containers that taste pure. Eight that taste less pure. He can make the less pure ones better. Who cares how? Who cares if only he can do it?"
She steps forward. "We have ten containers now. That's more than the two we started with. And if he can make them all pure... that's ten pure containers. For all of us."
Murmurs. Agreement. The crowd is desperate. Wants to believe.
The one-armed man's eyes narrow. "And what does he get for this? You think he'll do it for free?"
"I don't care what he charges," the woman says. "Clean water is worth anything."
"It's a trick—"
"Maybe," she says. "But the water tastes better after he does it. That's not a trick. That's real."
The one-armed man looks at Vence. "You're going to let him—"
"Enough," Vence says.
Silence.
Vence looks at the containers. At Del. At the crowd.
Ten containers. Two pure. Eight less pure. And Del claims he can make them all pure. But he's too weak right now. Too injured.
Vence crouches next to Del. "Here's what's going to happen."
Del waits.
"You're going to recover," Vence says. "Get your strength back. Heal enough to do this purification process properly. Then you're going to process all eight of these containers. Make them as pure as the original two."
He pauses.
"And you'll do it in front of everyone. Prove it works. Prove you can do it."
Vence stands. Looks at the containers. At the crowd.
"After that, you run a service. Your service. People bring you contaminated water. You purify it. You charge whatever you want. Keep whatever you make."
The crowd murmurs. Some excited. Some confused.
"But," Vence continues, looking back at Del, "you pay me. Every day. Two rations. Or equivalent value."
"That's protection. I make sure nobody kills you for this. Nobody steals your containers. Nobody beats you to death while you sleep and takes everything."
He gestures to the crowd. "You think they won't try? You think when word spreads that you're making profit off desperation, someone won't put a knife in your back?"
Silence.