The Merry Merchant Company headquarters sat at 200 West St., Babjah. It was a prestigious building, yet it blended in well with its neighbors: not too gaudy nor too simple. The material was stone, cut into blocks, and built on each other. The archways--two placed on each side of the building--permitted a breeze from the Pasdares Wall to travel through. Several individuals were on the bottom floor, shopping in the open air. Some were adventurers looking to supply their next run, some were guards and mercenaries searching for weapons and armor, and some were merchants engaging directly with the Merry Merchant employees, bargaining for wholesale supplies. On the fifth floor was the Don’s office. There sat Alfie.

  He was having a good day. The Tranche Market moved predictably, allowing him to scoop a sizable profit. A lot of finance was like that: easy money if you got your predictions right. It was like a casino in that way.

  Suddenly, he felt a pounding on his head. Memories rushed back to him: the urchin in the street wrestling with the bread peddler, Hempin, Sololy--all dropped into his memories. It was like he was there, living it, breathing it. But he had not left his office since lunch. The simulacrum must have dissipated. Alfie smiled. The deal his simulacrum made was more than satisfactory. He could supply the city with juutcloud, especially with fifty barrels, adding another revenue stream to the Merchant’s business. Monopoly was the forte of any good company, and Alfie prided himself on running a damn good business.

  A knock reached his ears as Dario entered the office. Alfie glanced at him, gauging how the casino and racetracks did that afternoon, shoving aside the new memories. They should have done well, considering Fither Peres personally attended the tracks and Harold’s Palace afterward. That boy carried an entourage with him that could finance a small village, and knowing how boys operate, they would have tried to one-up each other, throwing down crowns. Profitable for the Merry Merchants--very profitable.

  “Well?” Alfie asked, looking back down in his ledger to record the day's events.

  Dario went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink. A drink big enough to celebrate but not forget. A good day, then.

  “Very profitable. Fither came in, as Lewis should have reported to you.”

  “He did. Nice of the young and pompous Fither to drop by.”

  “I don’t know why you condescend him. He’s only a few months younger than yourself.”

  “Yet I am me, and he is him.” Alfie finished recording his notes, taking the glass Dario had poured for him. “Everything went smoothly?”

  Dario pushed back his long brown hair tied in the latest fashion. Alfie never understood why Dario insisted on keeping up with the fads--they changed as much as the weather. One day here, the next, gone. Even Dario’s beard was trimmed in the Lusonum style. Their champion, a man with (according to the ladies) an immaculately dressed beard, won the Emperor's tournament. Therefore, all the men had to wear similar beards. Alfie thought it made Dario’s face look small--like a mole. But what did he know?

  “Aye,” Dario said. “I had Lewis pose as a passerby for the first race, dropping a hint to good ole Fither about an insider tip. Naturally, Fither, being the clever man he thinks he is, listened. His horse won. He made a profit. Very nice, very tidy. Lewis dropped another insider tip on the second race. Fither made a nice profit on that as well. Then, Fither, who thought he had a drop on the game, bet everything on the third race on Lewis’s suggestion. He lost everything he won and then a lot more.

  “From there, he attended the casino to win everything back. I didn’t even have to rig it. The casino is rigged anyway. You should have seen his face, Alfie. Damn, confused he was--absolutely befuddled the chips weren’t falling his way. So, yes, everything went as smooth as a courtesan’s legs.”

  Alfie raised his glass, the two of them toasting.

  “Well done,” Alfie said.

  “Thank you, kindly,” Dario said, taking a small sip. “I saw Bala on the way up here. He looked to be preparing for the fireworks tonight.”

  “That he should be. With Festus out scouting, Bala asked if he could help plan the operation. I agreed. He rather enjoys the authority.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “We’ll be leaving after dinner, an hour before midnight. Make sure you’re prepared.”

  “I wouldn’t miss explosions and sabotage. I’ll be there. Although, it would have been nice to have our resident bombmaker there for the bombing.”

  “Festus has his apprentices for a reason. They’re good lads and got the eye of destruction about them. I’m confident they’ll do.”

  “Shame I couldn’t apprentice. I’m just the socialite.”

  “We each have our skills.” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “Anything new in the rumor mill?”

  “Besides the fact that a certain young, available, and successful Don isn’t married?”

  “Yes.”

  “House Peres is throwing a ball.”

  “A ball?”

  “You know, a party--the high-class kind. Wine. Music. Dancing. Food from Lusonum. Pretty ladies. It’s the Lady Tina’s birthday.”

  “Oh, wonderful! Make sure to send our congratulations.”

  “I’ll do you one better. You’re invited to attend.”

  Alfie’s eyebrows rose. “I’m honored,” he said, monotone. He could think of precisely eleven things that would be better uses of his time than going to a ball: Scouting for new mines, tracking the Tranche Market, shooting boomsticks, inventing a new model boomstick, eating dinner, walking around the city, investing in juutcloud distribution, making renovations in his casino, collecting more blackmail, bribing spies, and reading. And that’s not in any particular order. The twelve thing he’d do is go to the ball. Why have spies if you had to attend yourself?

  “You should be,” Dario said, grinning.

  Alfie knew he should attend. It’s a wise decision. He’d get a good look at his enemies in person. “Who’s all invited?”

  “They’ve invited everyone in the Dukedom worth inviting: the barons and their wives, the young aristocracy, business owners, adventures, merchants, Artisans… anyone that would make the event cultured. Of course, that leaves the question of why you were invited.”

  “Because we own one of the biggest weapon manufacturers, investing houses, mining operations, leisure activities, and farmlands businesses in the Imperium, much less the Dukedom. My father is a baron, so naturally, I’d be invited. I’d probably be a prized guest of theirs,” Alfie said. He put down his drink. It tasted sour.

  “Feeling braggadocious?” Dario asked.

  “No, I’m feeling factual. When is it?”

  “Two weeks from now.”

  Alfie was about to curse when George entered the office.

  “Gentlemen,” George greeted. He was the Head of the Merry Merchant’s bookkeeping and looked like it. He was a bookish fellow (not to say that Alfie isn’t one; he just doesn’t look it). He wore a pair of spectacles with a wiry, golden frame. He had a habit of shoving them back to the top of his nose when there was no need. If Dario embodied style, George embodied the opposite, especially with his combover. Alfie rathered Dario’s ridiculous haircut to George’s.

  “Ah, George! How you do?” Dario asked.

  “Swell, swell. Just swell,” he said. He eased himself into the other chair, neat and proper.

  Alfie waited for George to announce why he was there. George was the sort who couldn’t stand needless silence. It irked him for whatever reason.

  “Are we sure that dealing in juutcloud is the best course of business?” Geroge asked. He had the voice of a librarian.

  “Oh, that’s why you’re here? Quit pandering to your morals,” Dario said. “The Kelife are simply the lever. You know our ambitions--the ends always justify the means.”

  “But moving drugs into the city would displace lives.”

  Alfie sighed. He couldn’t care less about whether people’s lives were displaced. They weren’t his responsibility, and they had the freedom to buy juutcloud or not. He wasn’t forcing anyone to do anything. “It is their choice to purchase the drugs,” he said. “It is their choice to abuse it. We are simply providing a commodity. We are not responsible for how it gets used. Is the blacksmith responsible if his sword is used to kill? No, he is not. We have laws that say so.”

  “Legal theory is not the same as morality,” George countered.

  “That’s a fair point, but my conscience is clear. The people who will purchase our drug will find another drug to fill the void. We’ll provide a safe alternative. So, if anything, we’re helping society. This way, people won’t have to go through a shady organization. This will be run like a business. We won’t sell to kids. We won’t sell to single mothers. We will only sell to those who can afford speed bumps in their lives.”

  George cursed under his breath. “We are being callous.”

  “Do not confuse apathy for callousness,” Alfie said. “It is simply business, nothing more, nothing less. We need the liquidity. We need the connections. Therefore, we will find the path that provides both. This is the path of least resistance, so we will walk it.”

  “Are you sure that we covered ourselves?”

  “Dario will go to the Licensing Bearau and establish a subsidiary company--an LLC would be best. We’ll run the operations through it. It’ll be a torch-lighting service, a good excuse to make our boys roam the streets.”

  “Sounds good,” Dario said.

  “Oh, very clever,” George replied. “And how are the actual transactions going to be made? Our agents can’t exactly be carrying juutcloud and a lighter, especially if the Dendihm decide to make themselves a nuisance.”

  “We’ll have teams. The operator will be the torch-lighters responsible for establishing first contact. Then we’ll have a second man tailing him, blending in with the crowd. They’ll only operate in the mornings and evenings when people move to and from work. The tail can masquerade as one of these people. This way, our boys will always be moving. There will be no base of operations for which the Dendihm to pinpoint. It also has the additional benefit of being the regular hours for traditional torch lighting.”

  “Very good. Our drug empire and eventual damnation grow more and more real,” George said.

  “The odds are that there’s no afterlife,” Dario said, returning to the desk in the middle of the room.

  “Aye, but are those odds something we’d want to play? The penalty for being wrong is consequential, whereas the reward for being right is slim. It is not an ergodic game,” George said.

  “The reward is power,” Dario replied.

  “That’s enough, gentlemen. George, I hope your conscience grows to be clear on this matter, but this is our course of operations,” Alfie said.

  “It’s fairly clear, Don. I wanted to pick your brain. This is a slippery slope.”

  “I agree. We’ll be as moral about it as we can. Is there anything else you wanted to bring to my attention?”

  George took a breath. “Yes, I’m really here to discuss the rumors of a lashinwhip in Passvo. The details are scarce, but allegedly, a Leviathan destroyed two towns before perishing.”

  “Chance of it being real?” Dario asked.

  “Slim,” George said. “The probability of a Leviathan breaking from the Deep Places twice in a decade is almost nill.”

  “You’re misconstruing the probability,” Alfie said. “Sure, taken in this singular context, the chance is almost nill. But, according to your own calculations, Paedor has breathed for thousands of years. Given the timeline, the chance of a lashinwhip happening twice in a decade since the birth of life is quite likely.”

  “What is the worst-case scenario?” Dario asked.

  “The worst-case scenario is that it is real. If it did indeed happen, the probability of a utlagatus being born increases. It’s still low, but it has increased nonetheless. We don’t need another rogue, unknown player in our game. Furthermore, it’s also likely that House Carys collected the telogene and influunt--more power and wealth to that House is not good for the long-term. Old man Abraham is violent and closed-minded,” George said.

  The three of them sat in silence for a moment before Alfie said, “I want us to assume that the lashinwhip did happen, and, at the very least, someone ingested the telogene, and a Wizard was born--whether a utlagatus or a loyal servant to House Carys. Amos will investigate.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Very well,” Dario said. “I’m curious as well.”

  “Anything else?” Alfie asked.

  “Do you want me to continue to send spies against House Peres?” George asked. “It seems like a waste. They are as strong as ever, and Ithra, while old, shows no signs of weakness. Unless she dies, we have no shot of taking over the Dukedom. She’s too powerful of a Wizard, especially with her bondermen, and that’s not even mentioning her eldest son, Jicdo.”

  “Keep investigating,” Alfie said. He stood up from the desk and walked to the map hanging against the wall: tap, step, drag, tap, drag, step, drag. It depicted the nine provinces of the Imperium, each ruled over by a Great House. “This is a house of cards, gentlemen,” he said, waving at the map.

  “Back in the days of Harold the Great, the world was a glistening gold, but now it is a dull silver. The Great Houses have grown fat and slow. They have no great enemies. They have nothing to strive for. The Emperor is old and refuses to die. His sons are inept. The Houses have no spine, and each is content to live as their own tiny emperor. Harold would have despised his descendants, just as we despise them.

  “No one remembers that they can do whatever they wish: that they have a heart in their chest and air in their lungs. Technology has stagnated. Exploration has ceased. We used to do things simply for the sake of doing them: climbed the mountains, delved into the Abyss, and sailed the seas. We’ve lost our curiosity and, with it, our spirit. So, yes, we’ll keep studying House Peres. They have a weakness to exploit. We just need to remain opportunistic, expanding our influence and power. Eventually, Ithra will die. That is a fact. Then, our little empire will be pitted against theirs, and we will win.”

  There was a pause.

  “What an impassioned monologue,” Dario said. “I feel like marching through Ulstercourt and slapping the Emperor himself… well said.” Despite his sarcasm, Alfie watched his face grow flushed.

  “Indeed,” George said, eyes glistening with ambition.

  “Apologies for the rambling,” Alfie said, checking his pocket watch. “Now, if that’s all, I must be off. I have a meeting with a perturbed customer who ‘must meet with the establishment's owner,’ or other such nonsense.”

  Both George and Dario offered their condolences. Alfie limped out of his office and downstairs for his meeting; however, he filled his thoughts with grandiose visions of the future. He didn’t want to meet with the mediocrity of the day. How could he? The future is calling! But still, he put one foot in front of the other, down and down. Tap, drag, step, step, drag, tap, drag.

  Not too much longer, he promised himself. Not too much longer, indeed.

  *

  The nighttimes in Babjah were just as hot as the afternoons. The humidity from the Bote Jungle rose up, sweeping over the city’s towering walls and blanketing the streets. It can be stifling, even with the steady breeze that was so common this time of year.

  Alfie walked down Main Avenue of the Tinker’s District. Factories, warehouses, and refineries lined the avenue, each building large and foreboding. It took a lot of cash to set up shop in this district: the property prices alone were enough to bankrupt a minor noble. It wasn’t the land that was special, but the perception of the land. People--especially those from Babjah--considered the Tinker’s District a place of pseudo-magic. How else can raw material be transmuted into boomsticks, carriages, beams, and watches? It all happened here.

  There was a certain level of magic, Alfie supposed. The walls were made of brick, muddy and scorched. The air smelled of coal, and smoke stung the eyes. Soot clung to the oily windows of the buildings and the cobbled streets. The sounds of clanging metal, churning steam-powered pistons, and roaring furnaces sounded within the monstrous factories: a jungle of sound. But that was not where the magic lay. The magic was this: The Tinker’s District was the dirtiest place in the Dukedom, yet people coveted it. Why? Because of their perception of it, it’s the same logic as the price of the land on which the district lay.

  If people believe that something is important, it’s important. It’s the same with power. It’s the same with popularity. It’s a fascinating characteristic of people.

  Alfie walked with a group of ten individuals. He was at the lead, given that he was the slowest one with his cane and unrhythmic tapping. Beside him walked Bala, a towering man from the very Eastern reaches of the Imperium. He was well-built with rippling, bulging muscle and moved with an effortless glide. He wore a dark suit cut exactly to his fit, and he possessed the presence of a predator--eyes roaming, diving into every shadow not illuminated by the moon above. Alfie was glad to have him as his bodyguard.

  “How much farther?” George asked.

  “Quiet,” Bala hissed with his grumbling voice.

  “Just a block up,” Alfie said.

  “Thank goodness,” George said. “I still don’t understand why I am here. I’m not a saboteur.”

  “Because you are my bonderman,” Alfie said.

  “So is Bala, and he’s the best. My presence as your bonderman is unnecessary.”

  “Quiet,” Bala said.

  “He’s a machine--the perfect bodyguard.”

  “You’re here because you need the experience. Ever since Barralet, you’ve been a pencil pusher. You need the fieldwork,” Alfie said.

  “This doesn’t suit me.”

  “Neither does your combover, yet it is there anyway.”

  George scowled. “It runs in the family.”

  “You’ve never met your family.”

  “Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  “Is this a raid or breakfast tea?” Bala grumbled.

  “It’s a raid, my goodman,” Alfie said. They came to an alleyway slick with dirt and grime. Alfie paused, pulling out his pocket watch. “Five minutes to midnight.”

  Amos came up from the back of the group. He was a small man--Bala was a head and a half taller. He wore black rags over grey pants and a grey shirt like a beggar, which was the point. His hair was a mess, and his beard was utterly untrimmed--a scraggly mess.

  “There is no one about,” he said. “The nearest patrol is three blocks away. It’ll take them three minutes to get here once the fireworks blow, wearing all that armor. They’re a heavy patrol, which is good.”

  “Excellent,” Alfie said. “Then let’s take our seats.”

  The group moved into the alleyway, climbing a ladder to the top of a warehouse. At this time of night, no one moved on the streets, and the workers inside wouldn’t be listening for footsteps. In fact, Alfie suspected they were playing their nightly poker game instead of working, as they usually did. It is why Alfie chose this particular roof.

  Alfie waited at the top of the ladder for everyone, counting off each member as they clambered to the roof: Bala, George, Amos, Cusco, Viers, Scrap, Bulge, Rust, and Paddles. Each got on their bellies and moved the roof's edge at the opposite end. Alfie followed after Paddles, crawling to the ledge to overlook a large metalworks factory. A large, white sign titled “Gregory’s Metalworks” was mounted on the factory’s roof, which Alfie could see even at his angle. The moonlight illuminated it beautifully. It was a large building. The exact dimensions were fifty yards by three hundred--plenty of space for smelters, molds, storage, offices, blast furnaces, and recyclers. Alfie knew because he paid the foreman a hefty sum of crowns for the information. He also knew that the night shift only employed guards to man the roof and front doors--an inconvenient but manageable nuisance.

  Two guards were stationed in the direction Alfie crawled towards, one on each of the factory’s corners. Two more guards were three hundred yards away on the other end of the building. Coming to the edge, Alfie peeked over. Gregory’s Metalworks sat in front of a small, cobblestone courtyard. They were approximately thirty yards away. Bala, George, Amos, and the rest of the group followed after him, leaning on the short wall.

  “What a gaudy sign,” Amos said.

  “You couldn’t miss it,” George replied. He was out of breath from the short climb and crawl. His suit was a mess. “Gregory doesn’t seem to have a low opinion of himself.”

  “I should have brought tea,” Bala said again.

  “Cusco and Viers,” Alfie said, motioning them over. They were mid-teens with barely any facial hair. It was strange looking at them: Alfie was only a few years older, yet he considered them children. They crouched down at Alfie’s side. “Those two,” he said, pointing out the two guard’s silhouettes.

  “Aye, Don,” Cusco said. They lifted the two bows off their back.

  “On my mark,” Alfie said, checking his pocket watch. The two teens reached for their arrows, cocking them.

  “Mark,” Viers said. Cusco echoed him.

  “Fire.”

  Two arrows flew through the night. They made no sound. Boomsticks were the future, meant for war and duels. But bows and arrows were a thing of the past, and they were made for assassination and sabotage--for nights like these. The guard on the right caught an arrow in his eye, rocking his head back. The one on the left took an arrow in the middle of the chest. Both slumped to the ground.

  Alfie glanced down at the bottom of the building, by the main door. Two more guards stood on either side. “Two down below.”

  “Mark,” they said.

  “Fire.”

  Two more arrows whistled in the moonlight. Two more bodies slumped to the ground, collapsing onto the cobblestone. The group listened for a moment, checking if anyone heard.

  “Good shooting,” Amos said.

  “Thank you,” Viers said, voice cracking. Cusco shook slightly, and Viers’ face was pale white.

  Alfie patted both of them on the back. “Congratulations. You’ll both be getting a reaping fee. I want you to sit the rest of the night out and enjoy the light show. Your first time is always the hardest. Take your time to process what just happened.” They both nodded, stepping back. Alfie knew they’d be shaken but would soon get over it. He was younger than them the first time he killed, and it helped being surrounded by comrades.

  Alfie stood up, limping back to the ladder. The rest of the group followed, climbing down.

  “I understand that I’m supposed to be getting fieldwork, but what’s the point of coming out if we just stand in the back the whole time?” George asked, taking a handkerchief and wiping away his sweat. He also fixed his eyeglasses. They didn’t need fixing.

  “Would you like to take the front lines then?” Alfie said.

  “No, I’m just calling out the redundancy.”

  “You’re here because I am here, and I am here because I have breath in my lungs and a heart that beats. I’m here because I can be. I’m here because it’s fun. Simple as that,” Alfie said, waiting for everyone to come down.

  “It’s a needless risk.”

  “I don’t care. There is adventure in tonight’s work, and I’ll be damned if I miss it. We do things because we can--that’s art. We are artists, and tonight is our painting.”

  “Melodrama,” Amos said, hopping down.

  “Perhaps, but it’s romantic nonetheless,” Alfie said. “Bala, take the front. We’ll follow.”

  Bala moved to the lead. They exited the alleyway, swaggering across the small courtyard to Gregory’s Metalworks. The two guards lay by the front door, arrows sticking out of their chests. One of them was still breathing. It was a choking, rotting breath filled with blood. His throat must have been filled with the stuff. He wasn’t long for this world.

  “Bala,” Alfie said, waving a hand at the guard. Bala pulled out a knife and walked towards him. He bent down, angling the blade towards the guard’s chest. Before he could plunge it in, Alfie said, “Actually, George, you do it.” Bala looked back at Alfie, eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, that’s just cruel,” George said.

  “Do I look like I’m taking any pleasure in this?” Alfie asked.

  George paused, staring at Alfie. A moment passed. Seemingly satisfied, George walked over to Bala, grabbed the knife, and, with only a moment's hesitation, drove the knife into the guard’s eye. The guard’s chest stopped moving.

  Handling the knife back to Bala, George said, “I hope that qualifies as my fieldwork for the day.” Blood stained his hands. It was not a clean cut--he was out of practice, it seemed.

  “That is good for now,” Alfie said.

  Bala and Amos opened the doors, and Alfie motioned for the four bombardiers in their band to move into the building. Scrap, Bulge, Rust, and Paddles strode into the building, followed by Bala and Amos. Dario and Luis lurked somewhere in the back of the building, assuming they handled the two guards on the roof--a fair assumption to make. Alfie kept track of the time on his watch. It should last no more than five minutes.

  “Why did you make me kill that man?” George asked, leaning on the wall with Alfie, pointing at the body. Cucso and Viers leaned out of earshot on the other end of the wall.

  “Because he was dying,” Alfie said.

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Bala didn’t want to do it. He is soft-hearted.”

  “Also, not good enough. Bala is a machine and most likely the deadliest man in the Dukedom. He has no qualms with a mercy killing, even if we were the reason why mercy was required.”

  Alfie sighed. “You are my bonderman. You share a part of my power, and I trust you. But I am fragile, given my leg, and the path we walk is hard. I must know that you can walk it.” Alfie leaned on his cane, looking up to the stars.

  “I was there when you became a utlagatus. I know what is required. I know what lies on either side of the road we travel.”

  “I know you do.” Alfie reached out his hand; George took it. “I apologize for asking you to kill that man, even though the young ones over there did most of the work,” Alfie said, motioning towards Cusco and Viers.

  George smiled. “Aye, that they did. Talented those boys. We’ll have to give them a raise.”

  “Aye, give it to them. It would be the height of arrogance to let talent walk away to simply line our pockets.” Alfie paused. “We’re greedy enough as it is.”

  “That we are,” George said.

  They stood in silence until the saboteurs came out. Bala came up to Alfie.

  “Well?” Alfie asked.

  “No issues whatsoever. I guess it was a tea party.”

  “I’m sure we can pay someone to have tea with you, though it might break the bank,” Luis said, standing with them. He was a little man--the same size as Amos. He had bright blonde hair and stark, crystal-blue eyes. Laugh lines lined his face, and his pearly white teeth shined in the moonlight. “People around here insist on dying for company and loyalty,” he said, cleaning his sword. “I have no problem with the latter, but these people are pillocks, thinking good ole Gregory gives a shit about them. Idiots, the whole lot.”

  “And that’s saying something, coming from you,” Dario said, who was the last to come out. He had grease on his hands, which he was wiping with a dirty rag. Alfie found it a bit ironic.

  “Oh, that’s cute. Wish I could say the same for that hairstyle,” Luis said.

  “Enough,” Bala rumbled.

  “I found it amusing,” Amos said.

  “No one cares what you found amusing,” George said.

  “You wouldn’t know amusement if you tripped over it,” Amos replied.

  “Don Alfie,” Paddles said, interrupting. “I’ve set the fuses to blow in three minutes.”

  “Excellent,” Alfie said, once again checking his watch. “Let’s be off.”

  “Fortunate timing,” Dario said.

  “You started it,” Luis said.

  “Enough children. You’re giving me a headache,” Bala said, taking the lead.

  The group strolled through the streets of the Tinker’s District. It was a peaceful night, and Alfie felt very pleased. A bird--looked like a raven--landed on a roof nearby. It looked soft. Delicate, like velvet. Then, approximately three minutes after they set off, a massive boom erupted, and the bird rocketed away. Screams ripped out of homes, and bells rang in the distance. Smoke clouded the moon, but the Merry Merchants were well on their way.