Chapter 91: Marin Is Still Sleeping
Marin was still asleep. Even though the poison had been neutralized, the fatigue in her body would remain. The room was suffocatingly quiet. A strange smell of herbs and alcohol lingered. Sunlight from midday poured in through a large glass window on one side.
"You know the dump, right?"
Dagon nodded quietly.
"It's underneath there. They've scattered through tunnels and are fleeing. Should I explain the next part too?"
Marhal emptied the bottle completely. Tilting his head back, he drained the last drop and said,
"I want to have a conversation. Got it?"
Dagon fled the room like his life depended on it. Marhal set the bottle down on the floor and closed his eyes.
The mystery he'd just awakened was incomplete. In time, he might sense everything happening within his lands, but for now, his limit was detecting moving objects in specific areas.
This is more than enough as it is.
As a landlord, it was plenty for managing his territory. It seemed Kaban had done his job properly. Things were chaotic under the dump. In underground fights, even assassins would struggle against Dagon. His mystery, honed from living below ground, was something even true killers rarely saw.
Marhal rose from his chair. Kaban and Dagon were there, but he didn't expect them to catch everyone. The Black Fingers were real assassins, trafficking drugs in bulk. They wouldn't have just one hideout. All he needed was to chip away at their forces a little. Keep chipping, and the body would show, then the head. Fleshing out the bones and meat could wait until then.
Marhal stood. He decided to head to the labor market.
Dagon sprinted desperately toward the dump. Failure here wouldn't end as simple failure. There was no guarantee today's power would last until tomorrow. He had something resembling power now, but it could vanish at one man's whim anytime. To make today's power endure into tomorrow, he had to make up for this failure.
Dagon halted mid-run. Back when Aphranche was intact, he'd lived underground there. Not just sewers—he burrowed anywhere below ground. He was more confident in underground fights than on the surface. Down there, light was scarce, forcing reliance on other senses. Dagon excelled especially at detecting vibrations. If it shook the earth, he could feel it through his feet.
Dagon pressed his hand to the ground. A hole formed, and his body dropped below. He landed in an underground passage.
"Scared enough to clear out, huh?"
His words were casual, but inwardly, Dagon was seething with curses. He'd been too busy handling Marhal's task to properly watch the city, but tunnels? In whose territory, of all places?
A lantern flickered ahead. Its bearer didn't move as Dagon appeared. He wore light black cloth clothes. Fine for hiding simple tools, but not much else. His face was exposed, screaming hasty flight.
If the assassin struck, Dagon had no chance. His mystery was impressive, but his personal combat skills weren't. Still, he didn't think he'd lose. His abilities were far more assassin-like than any average killer guild's techniques. Dodging human eyes had naturally honed them.
Dagon's mystery activated before the assassin could react. The ground beneath the assassin sank, swallowing him into the burrow below. Dagon pulled a small vial from his pocket and poured its contents into the hole. A scream echoed from a seasoned killer. As long as he didn't die, it was fine. Assassins could endure some poison.
Dagon loosely covered him with dirt—just enough not to kill—and pressed his ear to the ground. The buried assassin was noisy, but Aphranche's sewers were noisier. In their well-farmed sewers, water always flowed except in drought. Distinguishing flowing water from footsteps above to snag targets required precise hearing. One person thrashing was mere background noise to him.
A vibration rippled through the earth, catching his ear.
Found you.
Dagon stood and placed his hand on the tunnel wall. His mystery specialized in digging earth, but underground, it could work like this too. The wall crumbled, opening a path. A dangerous route without safeguards, but if it collapsed, he'd just dig again.
Entering the labor market, Marhal briefly mistook it for a battlefield. Long wars fill streets with the destitute. Some collapse from hunger while scavenging food; others sleep on the pavement from wounds or exhaustion. The market looked just like that.
There had always been homeless and beggars at the market. Stays at inns cost money, so some slept outside to save it. But they never outnumbered the walking. Now, the fallen and shambling corpse-like figures outnumbered the hale. One bashed his head against a wall, blood streaming from his forehead. Another stripped naked in the chill.
Drugs potent enough for even Dagon. Lethal on first contact, irreversible at that stage. Not just civilians—properly geared mercenaries were visible too. Their equipment suggested no laziness. Likely painkillers or stimulants gone wrong, leading to addiction.
Marhal entered the largest nearby building, the most popular labor brokerage in the territory. Not as bad as the addicts outside, but a few dosed souls lurked inside. A faint tension touched Marhal's lips.
They wouldn't let junkies into the building.
Yet they were here. Desperation for workers outweighed the risk. The city was already in dire straits.
One of the clerks spotted Marhal and rushed over panting.
"The boss is inside. Shall I fetch him?"
"No, I'll go in."
People here didn't know Marhal was the landlord. They saw him as a wealthy merchant with private access to the boss. He maintained that to keep excuses for meeting the owner.
Heading inside, he opened the black-painted door. A gray-haired elder looked up. Eyes half-closed, he gave a frail impression. But his gaze on papers was sharp.
"You? What kept you so long?"
"Saw some junkies in your shop."
The elder sighed deeply.
"Sit."
Marhal took the nearby chair. The elder ignored him, focusing on documents. Reading, dipping his quill in ink, writing, punching holes to thread ledger pages—one by one.
"I've seen this before. Drugs gut a city's workforce, outsiders move in."
His words were slow but stuck firmly.
"This time, they're trying to ruin the city. No leads?"
"Go straight behind the shop—shacks. All local drugs come from there."
"Didn't tell Hugo?"
Marhal knew the elder; so did Hugo. He'd surely met him.
"That one's too loyal—pushes too hard, mistakes his limits. Perfect recipe for disaster."
Few dared badmouth Hugo on Marhal's lands. The elder had no dramatic backstory like others. Just a normal merchant rolling money, come west for a big score when it opened. That was it. Unusual only in never stopping challenges at his age.
"And me?"
"You'd kill them all if things went south."
"That's the plan this time."
The elder lifted his half-closed lids.
"First time I've heard you say you'd kill personally."
"Was it?"
"Yeah."
The elder could've claimed border land with his money and skill but waited for the second land race. When Marhal planned the city, he invested heavily first. Marhal turned it into a fortune, the city's foundation. Half the city was built on his coin, no exaggeration.
Having started it with Marhal, he knew the dirty deeds in its building. This city was one major stem from the border into the west. When pillars rose, scoundrels schemed to steal land through filth. None remained now.
Over sixty. He'd lived enough, seen enough. Before Marhal, he thought he knew people. Marhal shattered that, showing human cruelty's depths. The elder quit big business, opened this brokerage for small, steady gains. It had issues, but fewer people headaches than before.
Marhal met the elder's gaze steadily. The elder noted his slightly dilated pupils.
A storm's brewing.
The mad dog had gone truly mad. Time to shutter shop and hole up in the basement for days.
"City's state?"
"Reputation's tanking. One slip, and we're outcompeted."
The west boomed; cities grew with it. Stagnation meant eternal obsolescence.
"People?"
"Lucky it's cooling off. Summer would've meant corpse piles and plagues."
"Can I take a bottle of liquor?"
"What if no?"
"I'll requisition it as landlord."
"Take it."
Marhal grabbed a decorative bottle from the room. He popped the cork deftly with his dagger and sniffed.
"This expensive?"
"Would I display cheap stuff?"
"I'll savor it."
Marhal left. The elder rang the desk bell. A clerk rushed in.
"Wh-what is it, sir?"
"Close shop. Everyone home, rest until I call."
"N-now? We haven't cleared morning stock!"
"Want me to say it twice?"
The clerk knew his temper and bolted. In under thirty minutes, people were evicted, doors barred. Other brokerages followed suit, eyeing nervously. The junkie-haunted market grew eerier.
Marhal headed to the shack the elder mentioned. En route, he met unexpected faces.
"Karian? Astal?"
"Hey, back already?"
"H-hi, Marhal."
Karian greeted warmly; Astal awkwardly.
"What brings you here?"
"Heard drugs were sold here. Just checking."
"Others?"
"Handling their own probes, probably."
"No guards? What if attacked?"
"We have 'em."
Karian glanced up. Marhal followed. A small shadow peered from the roof.
"One of ours?"
"You knew."
"Was ready to kill if you tried anything."
"You? Me?"
The shadow dropped to the ground. His landing form marked a superhuman. Physically superior to Marin's attacker. Not that it decided assassin duels, but likely skilled too.
"Lucky connection."
"Fortunate, yeah."
"Ignoring me?"
"No. Check the ground first?"
The man looked down. A leather cord burst from the earth, looping his ankle. It feigned binding without touching shoe or pants—undetectable to his senses. Bursting from below meant serious power. Yank on motion, then throat? Most couldn't react.
"That ignoring?"
"...Impressive, a cut above. I'll head back up."
Marhal released the cord; the man kicked off the wall to the roof.
"Random encounter?"
"Kinda. Long story."
"Later, then. Got urgent business."
"Right."
Marhal opened the shack door. Inside the tiny space sat dozens of precious glass vials filled with gray powder. Dagon's black powder was pure; this, diluted with flour or cornmeal.
A hunched elder sat within.
"Heard everything outside. Kill me, get nothing."
The crone grinned slyly. Marhal smiled back, taking the chair before her. He sipped from the brokerage bottle, wiping dribbles with his sleeve.
The accent in his speech. Pupil color common in Pubguk nobles, especially women. Fingernails stained multicolored—decades of toxins. Face scarred by STDs. Calluses looked weapon-born at first, but context screamed clubbing others.
With clues, the rest pieced plausibly.
"Born Pubguk, fled to Kerdi at youth? Why would a noble lady go to a vassal state? Ah, started drugs then—not marriage, elopement. Sold body, wrecked by STDs, started wrecking others. Hands grew, joined Black Fingers. West for a big score in old age?"
The crone's eyes widened. Sagging cheeks quivered. No more leisure.
Origin reading. Thieves yielded to Marhal at parting. Reading this unguarded crone's life, even drunk, was easy.
"Y-you...! Who are you?!"
Marhal rose, hand hovering over her head. Terrified, she froze breathless. He tilted, spilling bottle remnants onto her scalp.
Marhal crouched, staring straight at wine-streaked face.
"Me? Your turn to guess."