Wine Flows Down the Wrinkled Face
Wine trickled down the old woman's wrinkled face. Some pooled in the creases, while the rest stained her clothes. Her trembling subsided.
The old woman possessed no special powers. Superhuman physical prowess or magic that defied reason were far beyond her reach. Yet she had strength all the same—insight and composure forged through enduring the harsh winds of a cruel world. That alone had brought her this far.
The man before her was remarkably capable, but he looked not even thirty. A mere youngster, half her age. Whatever a kid like him could do, she could manage too.
She eyed Marhal's attire. Cloth reinforced with leather at vital spots, colored just enough to avoid drabness. The garb of a common mercenary. It was filthy with dust. No one got that dirty inside city walls. He'd just returned from outside.
His face, though, was clean. A mercenary spending half the day under the sun couldn't have skin like that. He wasn't the fighting type. Then... what?
Conflicting clues stalled her thoughts. His impossibly pristine skin devoured every other hint. Mercenaries couldn't have clean skin. She knew that better than most women. Unless they only worked nights or holed up in workshops, anyone laboring in the sun ended up weathered. That was the way of the world, plain truth.
Western mercenaries couldn't have flawless skin. Was he just some dandy playing dress-up? But his actions didn't fit—a decade-hardened mercenary, or someone who commanded them. Nobles wouldn't stoop to such crude behavior.
Marhal poured more liquor over the old woman's head and settled back into his chair. He crossed his legs, rested his interlaced hands on his knee, and fixed her with a steady gaze.
He caught her stare. "Why?"
His voice carried a child's innocent curiosity, as if he truly didn't know. It clashed viciously with his glazed, predatory eyes—eyes that could draw a sword and slit her throat without a second thought.
She opened her mouth, closed it, repeated the motion. She couldn't speak. Her lungs felt waterlogged, breathing a struggle.
"Want to feel better?"
She nodded before she realized it, her body moving on instinct.
Marhal tilted his head up. His eyes were closed. A realization flashed through her mind. She'd dealt with the Black Fingers for years but never fully earned their trust. Narcotics were pricey. Leaving her alone to sell them was like begging for theft. She always had a guard-slash-watcher from the Black Fingers. And that watcher's usual hiding spot was the ceiling.
Under the table, out of sight from the opposite side, she signaled the assassin. Twice, three times, over ten. No response.
Marhal opened his eyes. She jolted.
"The one up there? Calling won't help."
The ceiling crashed open. A black-clad man plummeted headfirst, neck snapping with a crack.
"Wh-what do you want from an old bag like me?"
"I hate people who justify crimes by calling themselves old."
She curled up, hunching her back and drawing her legs onto the chair. She'd spread cloth to seem larger, but her exposed frame was pitifully frail.
"This lowly... lowly wretch will do anything—anything—you ask. Just show mercy, please..."
"Who makes the drugs?"
"I don't know! I just sit here every day and take whatever they bring... I swear! I truly don't know!"
She shook like a man cast into a blizzard-swept winter peak. Marhal said nothing.
An old woman who only followed orders couldn't work with assassins. And one capable of that would've sniffed out secrets on her own. Otherwise, she wouldn't have survived to her age.
Her eyes gleamed. She slammed her torso onto the table and spewed words like a madwoman.
"Gold! Coming from Kerdiçi, I saw way too much gold. My pay was gold dust. Not imperial coins—these weren't people who could hoard that much! There has to be something. Something tied to the gold!"
"And?"
"Follow the gold, and you'll reach them! Not coins—pure gold! Refined, real stuff!"
Having ranted like a lunatic, she peeked at Marhal's reaction. Her eyes, half-hidden in wrinkles, darted slyly. She grinned obsequiously.
Marhal reached for the empty bottle on the table and smashed it over her head. Glass shattered, shards flying. Blood streamed from her scalp as she slumped onto the table.
"Astal, can you carry her?"
"Th-that much is easy."
Astal, unaware he'd been holding his breath amid Marhal's aura, exhaled deeply.
He hoisted the old woman like luggage.
"Karian, anything else?"
"Nah, that's all I got."
"Then let's head back. The others might be returning."
The three left the shack. Emerging from the alley, they saw drug-addled wretches sprawled in the streets—some kids at prime growing age. Leaning limp against walls with vacant stares, they seemed more grotesque than pitiful. Maybe curiosity led them to cheap highs, or some bastard forced it down their throats. Either way, no future there.
Karian pitied the child doomed to a life of agony from one lapse.
"Why go this far? I get the goal, but wrecking the city like this—if you even take it, isn't it ruined?"
"Ever seen how a dump forms, Karian?"
"No. Never thought about it."
"Just toss a pile of trash in an empty lot."
"That's it?"
"People see trash gathering, so they add more. Restaurant owners, shopkeeps—they start dumping theirs there too. Boom, you've got a landfill."
Karian got it.
"Turning this city into that? A massive drug den drawing scum with drugs and cash?"
"Drugs mean profit. Users and dealers are predictable lowlifes. Kerdiçi has one like that—right on the duchy border. Nobles flock there for illicit fun."
The weak nation of Kerdiçi was practically a duchy vassal. Crossing the border on foot required no papers or prep.
"Even the assassins?"
"Yep. That's the Black Fingers' main base. Demand for hits is endless. Looks like they wanted a western branch."
The city ran on turf wars between syndicates. Any lord trying control couldn't match their muscle.
If the Black Fingers succeeded, this place would've mirrored it—a western trash heap. Marhal's city-rooted assets would've fallen to them too.
Back at the mansion, Marhal handed the old woman to a worker.
"To the basement."
The worker nodded, took her from Astal, then relayed before leaving, "Hugo's returned."
"Where?"
"Dining in the restaurant."
The worker vanished toward the back.
"Karian, you good?"
"Sure. But Astal?"
"...Can I rest a bit?"
Astal eyed Marhal warily. The old woman wasn't heavy, but the trek from the labor market had drained him. As an ordinary adult, lugging her had left him spent. He wanted no deeper in—after tagging with Karian and hearing Marhal's interrogation, his nerves were shot.
"Tired? In every way."
The question pierced like mind-reading. But Astal was too drained to flinch.
"Honestly, yeah. It's too much for me."
"Go rest. Good work."
Astal shuffled inside. Marhal turned to Karian.
"What about Astal?"
"Feels like seeing my old self back home? Loyal to his feelings, a bit green. But good-hearted."
Karian, once blind to his own flaws, now judged others objectively. He didn't grasp how impressive that was. But those around him did—including Marhal.
"He'd hate hearing that last part most."
"Still, being good isn't bad, right?"
"True enough."
They entered the mansion. Hugo waited in the dining hall, his black clothes caked in dust and sweat. He paused mid-chew on undercooked meat, spotting Marhal.
"Eat first, talk after."
Hugo swallowed, shed his damp coat—tossed on a chair—and donned a fresh one.
"I failed you."
"It's fine. Acting first gives the edge here. The others?"
"Still out. Back soon."
"Any results?"
"Rounding up sellers, but no solid evidence yet. Apologies."
"Skipped the labor market area?"
"No way it's Rail?"
Rail owned that turf tight. No major distributor slipped his notice. Hugo hadn't bothered checking—better to get one word from the old man than investigate endlessly.
Hugo's nostrils flared, veins bulging on his neck. Marhal raised a hand to calm him.
"Easy. Rail wouldn't act rashly. Anyway, gather the city's ledgers."
"Not one shop— the whole city? No time before it all..."
"No need to scour every detail. Gold. Not coins—payments in raw gold. Even scraps."
"Understood."
"Assassins involved too. Black Fingers—know 'em?"
"Heard the name."
"Warn everyone. Cornered, they do anything."
Marhal met only Hugo personally, but Hugo commanded underlings. Without them, he couldn't handle the city. Most were tough, literate normals—dead against real killers.
"Let's eat. Kitchen! Something quick and easy!"
A hearty reply echoed from within, followed by the scent of baking bread filling the hall.
As they waited, the door opened again.
"Back? Guess I'll eat too."
"Strekl? Where's Bayola?"
"At the warehouse, sorting ebony. Picking fakes from the real stuff."
"That happened too?"
"That brought us here originally. Without the drugs, we'd be chasing scammers now."
"Eventful. West's always been that way."
Hugo left to collect ledgers. Simple bread-and-ham fare arrived. Strekl topped his with veggies and meat, then asked, "Marin's not back?"
"Assassin got her. Sleeping off poison now."
Strekl's fork snapped. Karian dropped his knife.
"Antidote worked. Just resting."
"Good."
Strekl set aside the broken fork, grabbed a new one, and sliced bread and ham. Clink-clink. Each motion rang sharply off the plate.