Martin Hess

Three thousand six hundred gold coins.

Adding the one silver coin I had received today as an advance to the eleven I already had saved brought my grand total to twelve. I was still three coins short of the fifteen required for the official Belok citizenship application fee.

And yet, the bounty the Central Branch bastards had slapped on Beltz’s head was ten gold coins. Converted to silver, that came out to a flat thousand. It was enough to purchase citizenship sixty times over. As for the three thousand six hundred gold coins he had supposedly embezzled, one would have to multiply that very bounty three hundred and sixty times to reach such an astronomical sum.

I stopped doing the math. It only gave me a headache. Here I was, scraping by and agonizing over three measly pieces of silver, while those suits in management were pocketing gold by the thousands.

Meanwhile, the man branded as the mastermind behind this colossal heist sat perched on the edge of my cramped cot, pushing up his spectacles—now missing one lens—as he paged through Orban’s investigative ledger.

“How many people in the branch actually knew this final total beforehand?” I asked.

Beltz’s gaunt fingers froze against the parchment.

“I have only just confirmed the precise accumulated amount myself this very moment.”

“Then it’s quite the coincidence that the wanted poster lists the exact figure down to the coin.”

“Precisely. And that is where the problem lies.”

Beltz flipped toward the back of the ledger, a deep furrow carving into the space between his brows. The pages were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠densely packed with the names of frontier settlements, scheduled payouts per household, and the crimson strike-throughs Orban had inked in after pounding the pavement to verify whether the residents had received a single coin.

“You could never arrive at this number by examining the official ledgers drawn up by Route Development,” Beltz said, his voice taut. “It is an amount that appears only when you tally every hidden disparity—the funds siphoned off by intermediate brokers and extorted directly from the settlers under coercion.”

Orban, who had leaned back against the corner of the desk with his arms folded across his chest, murmured in a low rumble, “In other words, the ringleaders have been settling their illicit slush fund in real time behind closed doors.”

“Just so. And as the internal audit began closing in, they finalized every preparation to pin the entirety of that slush fund under my name, masquerading it as my embezzlement.”

Beltz tapped the woodcut likeness printed at the top of the wanted notice.

“This portrait is taken directly from my personnel file. If they had requisitioned a fresh printing plate from headquarters, it would have been impossible to produce overnight. I must verify whether the branch kept duplicates on hand, but… at the very least, it proves this warrant was drafted well in advance.”

They had put a bullet in him under cover of darkness, then plastered the streets with wanted posters by dawn. Had they taken the care to ensure he was actually dead, their cover-up would have been flawless.

“Who in the branch has the clout to pull off something like this?” I asked.

Beltz did not answer immediately. He scrutinized the departmental seals stamped along the bottom margin of the notice, one by one, before answering in a chill tone.

“Several departments sit along the approval chain for land compensation. However, issuing an emergency wanted bulletin under the authority of the Security Division, leaking personnel records without clearance, and forcibly commandeering the printing presses ahead of routine operations… that far exceeds the authority of any single department head.”

“You’re an executive too, aren’t you?”

“Which is precisely why I was chosen as the scapegoat.”

Even with his life hanging by a frayed thread, Beltz’s diction remained as sharp and measured as a draftsman’s ruler. The only tell was his knuckles, clutched around the handbill so tightly they had turned stark white.

Smoothing down the crinkled edges of the paper with his palm, Beltz looked up.

“We must find Martin.”

“The surveyor you mentioned earlier?”

“Martin Hess. The engineer who oversaw the on-site surveys for Section 3 of the Northern New Line.”

Beltz pointed his finger toward a mining hamlet situated on the northern frontier within Orban’s records. Unlike the other entries, this one was marked with two red circles.

“Whenever compensation was delivered to the locals on the construction front, he personally witnessed each transaction, collecting handwritten signatures and thumbprints on the spot. Martin was the very first to notice that the figures in the Central Branch’s official ledgers failed to match the actual sums disbursed in the field. And he carries the original pocketbook containing every true record of those payments.”

“Did he have it on him at the pumping station warehouse last night?”

“I saw him slip the leather notebook into his coat’s inner breast pocket with my own eyes.”

Orban’s gaze sharpened.

“When was the exact moment you last saw him?”

Beltz’s eyes drifted toward empty air. A flash of agonizing torment and self-reproach flickered past his cracked lens.

“It was immediately after the warehouse doors were slammed shut. Martin stepped in front of me, holding up the lantern, when an armed man wearing a security badge demanded the documents. The moment I refused, a gunshot rang out, and…”

Beltz’s hand unconsciously drifted to the thick bandages wrapping the right side of his chest. His ribs heaved, air hissing through his teeth in a ragged rasp.

“The lantern fell, shattering on the stone floor, plunging everything into darkness. A second shot tore through the room immediately after. I heard someone screaming Martin’s name in desperation. Beyond that… my memory goes dark.”

“Department Head,” Orban intervened, stepping forward to offer a tin cup of water. “Wringing your brain for memories right now will only pool more blood in your lungs. Don’t get worked up.”

Beltz broke into a dry, hacking cough. His fingertips trembled so violently that he nearly upset the cup, prompting me to reach out and steady the bottom of the tin.

This time, he didn’t utter any stiff protests about being able to drink on his own.

Orban folded the investigative log back up and shoved it into his inner pocket.

“I’ll start from South Gate No. 4 Pumping Station and sweep outward. I’ll check Engineer Hess’s lodgings and the back-alley watering holes he was known to frequent while I’m at it.”

“I shall accompany you.”

Beltz kicked the rough woolen blanket aside and moved to plant his feet on the bare floorboards.

Here this stubborn old mule goes again.

He was pushing himself up against the mattress, his elbows shaking so badly it was a wonder he didn’t notice.

I placed my palm against his uninjured shoulder. I didn’t even put ten percent of my strength into it—just a firm, steady downward pressure.

Yet his weakened frame couldn't withstand even that modest force. Beltz slumped back onto the mattress with a soft thud. The man stared in sheer disbelief, his gaze darting between his pinned shoulder and my slender, unassuming hand.

“…Kindly remove your hand.”

“You’ll burst your stitches, Department Head.”

“If Martin is still drawing breath, every second is vital!”

“If you tag along in that state, the number of corpses my boss has to recover jumps from one to two. You grasp the arithmetic, don’t you?”

Orban snorted, letting out an amused chuckle behind me. Beltz shot him a venomous glare, but he lacked the physical reserve to push past the weight of my hand.

“How long do you intend to pin me down, Miss Sonya?”

“Until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you lie there quietly.”

“I am already lying quietly, am I not?”

“Then we’re good.”

The moment I withdrew my hand, Beltz let out a heavy, defeated sigh and buried his head back into the pillow. His face was as pale as bleached paper, but he didn't attempt any further foolishness.

Orban shrugged into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his heavy overcoat and pulled the brass key to the back entrance from his pocket.

“Drop the crossbar on the inside. If anyone comes knocking, tell them the proprietor is out on business and turn them away.”

“Didn’t you say locking up for the whole day would look suspicious?”

“Leaving the front unlocked until noon is downright diligent for an independent broker in this neighborhood. For my reputation, that’s plenty.”

With a faint smirk, Orban slipped through the rear exit, vanishing down the narrow corridor that opened into the laundromat alley.

Click.

Once his boots had fully receded into the distance, I secured the double iron latches on both the front and back doors. Pulling back the heavy blackout curtain by no more than the width of a knuckle, I kept watch over the lane below.

Directly beneath the office window, the weathered wooden awning of the ground-floor laundry jutted out into the alleyway. From there, the leap across to the warehouse roof on the opposing side was roughly two and a half meters.

A simple distance for me to clear on my own. But if I had to haul a man with a punctured lung across that gap, the rot-eaten awning would collapse under our combined weight before we could even launch.

In an emergency, the primary escape route is the rear fire escape. If the stairs are cut off, fall back through the laundry’s inner courtyard. If even that gets surrounded… I breach the masonry.

The laundromat proprietor would probably faint on the spot and sue us for the repair bills, but fresh mortar was significantly cheaper than taking a bullet to the skull.

I retrieved my pack from behind the wardrobe and set it atop a chair by the sill. After checking the cylinder of the Sermaize revolver to ensure all six chambers were loaded, I distributed my spare powder flask and primer pouch into separate coat pockets.

In place of Beltz’s blood-soaked executive overcoat, I hung one of Orban’s spare leather coats near the peg by the door.

“Are you preparing to flee?” Beltz asked from the bed, his voice raspy.

“I’m preparing to provide protection.”

“Does your idea of protection typically begin with packing your rucksack?”

“I haven't collected the remaining one silver coin on your retainer yet. You have to stay alive if I want to see my money.”

Beltz chewed on the answer in silence for a beat, then gave a faint, reluctant nod.

“A reasonable incentive.”

He stared vacantly at the water-stained plaster ceiling before speaking again.

“Is this originally your room, Miss Sonya?”

“Yes.”

“Then why have you not voiced a single complaint?”

“You never asked. Besides, for two silver coins a day, sleeping on the floorboards is practically luxury service.”

Beltz glanced around the sparse room. A spare linen shirt, a bottle of gun oil, an extra pair of work boots. There was nothing else to see. My entire worldly possessions could be packed into a single rucksack in under two minutes.

“I have inconvenienced you.”

“You certainly have. Don't worry, I’ll add a lodging surcharge to your final invoice.”

The corner of Beltz’s mouth twitched upward in a fleeting grimace. It was the closest thing to a smile I had seen on his face since he had taken that round to the chest.

Around two in the afternoon, suspicious movement stirred in the alleyway.

Two men wearing the gray wool coats of the ARC Security Division were patrolling the block. Whenever they emerged from an inn or a carriage rental depot, they dragged a piece of chalk across the doorframe, leaving behind a sharp white slash.

The line of marks that had originated near the central terminus was creeping steadily toward our building.

I slipped out into the front office and pressed my back flat against the wall beside the entrance. My right hand instinctively rested against the polished walnut grip of the revolver at my hip.

Rattle.

The brass knob turned roughly, without the courtesy of a knock. The iron crossbar shuddered in its brackets, producing a harsh metallic screech.

“Mr. Orban?” a heavy, youthful voice called from the other side of the wood.

“He’s out on business,” I answered evenly.

“When does he return?”

“Haven't the faintest idea.”

“This is the ARC Central Branch Security Division. We have a few routine inquiries to make.”

Looking through the gap at the base of the door, I could see only a single shadow cast across the hall floorboards. There were no accompanying footfalls along the corridor window.

Inside the office, the air hung so taut that not even the sound of Beltz’s labored breathing could be heard from the adjoining room.

“What kind of inquiries?” I asked.

“We understand Mr. Orban frequently undertakes commissions regarding the South Gate waterways. We are canvassing to see if he observed any suspicious individuals near the No. 4 Pumping Station warehouse last night.”

“Ask him yourself when he gets back.”

“…Would you be so kind as to open the door?”

“Not a chance. Why would I open the door when I’m here alone?”

A prolonged silence settled outside. The tension on the brass handle tightened, the sheer torque of the man’s grip creaking through the timber.

Just then, the laundromat owner barged out onto the first-floor landing, carrying a sloshing galvanized tub, and let loose a shrill shriek up the stairwell.

“Who’s that stamping around up there?! Don’t you track that river muck onto my stairs! If you don’t have legitimate business, clear out! Come back when that scoundrel Orban opens for evening trade!”

The shadow beyond the frosted glass twitched at the racket, and the brass handle finally snapped back into place.

“Inform Mr. Orban that he is to report to the Central Branch Security Division immediately upon his return.”

Heavy leather boots clomped methodically down the wooden stairs. Drifting to the window, I peered through the slit in the curtains. The man dragged a stick of chalk across the entrance brickwork, joined up with two of his comrades waiting at the corner, and vanished down the next lane.

They hadn’t pinpointed our office specifically. But now that this building bore a inspection mark, its safety couldn't be guaranteed past tomorrow.

By the time the sun had completely dipped beneath the smokestacks and the municipal gas lamps flickered to life, the prearranged signal tapped against the rear door.

Rap, rap, rap. A brief pause. Rap, rap.

I lifted the crossbar, and Orban slid inside, carrying with him the pungent stink of stagnant canal water and coal soot. His field boots were caked in gray sludge.

“Security hounds came ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sniffing right up to our threshold,” I said.

“They’re sweeping faster than I anticipated.” Orban shrugged out of his damp coat, exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face.

From the doorway of the back room, Beltz pulled himself upright against the jamb, his tone taut. “What did you find at the pumping station?”

“Security scrubbed the place top to bottom before the City Guard could even catch a whiff of gunpowder. They washed the stone with lye and didn’t leave a single spent casing behind. The only bodies recovered were two local station hands. There was no sign of Martin Hess.”

Beltz expelled a long, shuddering breath. The absence of a corpse was far from proof of life, but it meant there was still a thread left to pull.

Orban reached into his breast pocket, drew out a folded slip of cheap paper, and tossed it onto the desk. It was an internal ARC bulletin, edged in a thick border of vermilion ink.

“Pinched this from the cab drivers’ guild across from the station.”

The portrait printed in the center showed a young man with a lean jawline, untidy brown curls, and an earnest expression accentuated by a distinct mole beside his nose.

Martin Hess.

I tapped the final line of print with the tip of my finger.

“Look at that. ‘Without damaging any notebooks.’ That means they haven’t caught him yet.”

“If he’s still within city limits, we have a fighting chance of finding him,” Orban said, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips with a bitter grimace. “We should assume he’s wounded, too.”

He struck a sulfur match against the desk drawer, the flame flaring bright against the twilight gloom.

“The problem is the clock. It’s a race to see whether we find him first, or those Security Division butchers track him down and slit his throat.”