Interlude 3: Rumours

Jorn coughed weakly, trying to clear the thick wad of mucous that seemed to be choking him alive. Leaning one hand against the greasy stone wall of the alley, he doubled over—his head spinning as a ka-thunk rocked his chest. His heart skipping another beat, it had to be.

They were getting closer together.

He needed more shard.

It…it would be his soon. Even with the fucking beasts ruining the supply lines—even the thickest smuggler was a fucking rat, and too few were braving the wilds—Grave-eye would have some.

He always did. He was desperate enough that the prices would be worth it.

Besides, this time he wouldn’t owe the demon-spawn shit. He had info.

Everyone knew that Grave-eye liked info. Sure, he was a ruthlessly conniving bastard who would look best dressed in six strides of soil—a veritable plague on the city—but the man had shard.

Or at least, Jorn was almost certain he did. How could he not? Grave-eye had his fingers in every single pie in the city. Sure, he was a smaller player, but he was smart, had connections. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him—or at least, thought he was useful.

It was honestly impressive how he’d managed to leverage a web of favours, deals, and alliances to keep himself safe in the middle of his enclave.

He had to have shard.

Just thinking about it was enough to get that metallic tingle on the back of his tongue, his mouth puckering at the very thought of it. That porcelain bite—shining a soft, impossible, grey. The sour taste of joy and acceptance.

The bitter fucking abscense of it.

Another thud rolled through him. Jorn crouched down, hugging his knees as he waited for the wave to pass.

He just…just had to get to Grave-eye. Even a flake would last him for a week—hells, a month!

Feeling himself grin at the thought of the poison, Jorn felt sick to his stomach. A delver, shivering in an alley as he dreamed of his next fix. Gods, he was gutless. Such a fucking bastard. A two-bit delver who was pathetic enough to get hooked on fucking shard—over a wench of all things!

But…it wasn’t all his fault. Cass had tricked him—told him it was just a bit of fun. Told him that she’d taken it for once or twice a year since she’d been a woman, without a hint of a craving. Liar. Then she’d died, and there was no fucking way he was dealing with that sober.

He’d lost Hosh in a delve three months later, and Talla the very next time he’d dared to step foot in those demon-spawned Depths after that.

Who could blame a man for grief?

Besides, it was the last time.

Jorn coughed, and the wad finally came free. Spluttering to the point of retching, he spat the slimy gristle onto the piss-streaked stone, and came up for a breath of sweet air—at least as close as you could get to it on this side of Deadacre.

With air, came clarity. Gods, what was he doing? He was a rat, a sellout—a fucking snake.

He should turn back. This was a step too low, even for a bastard like him. He could tell Ro—he’d never spoken to her, but he’d heard she was reasonable. Oh, she’d chuck him in a cell until he was good and dry, but she wouldn’t give him the boot.

She might if he went through with tonight.

There were a lot of opportunities out there now, for someone like him. Even a shit Scout with an Uncommon class could make something of themselves these days—plenty of things to grow strong against. Plus, the boys had been talking about pushing up through Bronze—making their way to Iron. There’d be good coin with that, enough to get him to the Dukedoms. Like he’d always wanted.

Ma would have wanted it too. Even if he could never visit her again, she’d want that for him.

He wouldn’t even have to delve. No more losing people to Guardians—just scoping out beasts, and running if it was too hard. He could do that, couldn’t he?

Just as he pushed against the alley wall, the damp grime feeling like shards of glass on his too-sensitive skin, his chest was rocked by another shuddering thump. Pain exploded, shooting down his arm and clawing its way up his neck.

No. No, he couldn’t. He’d die. He needed to taper—too much of a shock to the system to do it cold, not with how long he’d been on the poison.

But…but to taper he needed shard.

Fuck.

It was his life, or theirs. Hells, it wasn’t even their life! Just a few rumours really—stuff anyone could find out if they were watching closely.

Jorn gasped as a burning hot flush roared up his back, nearly heaving again as his nose ran down the back of his throat.

There was no choice. He had to see Grave-eye.

….

Grave-eye leaned back in his chair, the leather-lined recliner tilted back on an angle as he rested his boots on his desk. Ironwood desk, the top lined with suede made from a venomous cantel beast—only found in the eighth layer of a delve right in this very city.

Took a beating like nothing else, and it didn’t stain. A large bonus, in his line of work.

“Gorm, bring me a brandy.” he called to his hound who waited by the door to his office with a snap of his fingers. The brute grunted, but moved to obey, bowing his head to avoid the chandelier. Bloody ogre of a man—but keeping even a giant-blooded around had its uses.

He narrowed his eyes at the man’s slouch, the slow, lackadaisical, pace of his walk to the liquor cabinet by his bookcase—that one had been engraved by elves of all things. Any slower, and he’d have the man found in a gutter. Already would have, if the half-brained dimwit wasn’t so annoyingly loyal.

“Oh, and fetch me my copy of ‘The Secret Lives of Antidevian Mistresses’ as well.” Grave-eye added with a wave of his hand as Gorm opened the liquor cabinet with a shocking lack of care—didn’t the moron know that the joiner who’d made that was dead, and elvish, it was a rare piece!

Gorm shuddered to a stop, his hands frozen halfway through opening the crystal decanter that held his brandy. A Mystral vintage—the best brandy came from the best wine, after all.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Yer….what?” Gorm asked, staring at him with a complete lack of deference.

Grave-eye scowled, throwing his hands up in the air. “A book, you blithering fool! Right there! The red spine—imperial octavo, with the deckled edges and marbled boards.”

Gorm just stopped, staring at the bookcase as his eyes roved right over his book like the utter brainless lout he was.

“Right there, you fool! Second shelf from the top, five in from the right. Or do I need to teach you how to count, as well!” Grave-eye yelled, staring at his hound in disbelief. Utterly ridiculous. He’d have buried Gorm in a fucking latrine by now—if he hadn’t pocketed every bribe he’d been offered and then immediately turned it over with a list of who’d tried.

After a shocking display of mental agility, Gorm managed to find the book after his third set of directions, and brought him both his drink and his reading material.

Finally he could relax.

….

He’d only just gotten to his favourite chapter—’Seventy Silks for Sixteen Balls’—when he was rudely interrupted by someone hammering on his front door. They were heavy hits, carrying that desperate quality he had gotten so used to, and carried up the stairs to his study with inordinate ease.