Chapter 32
An Offer from the Shadows
The morning after the Gray Market felt like waking from a fever dream. The gritty residue of ash was gone from his hair, washed away by the night's rain, but the political filth he'd waded through felt like it had seeped into his pores. Renly was nursing a bitter cup of tea, mentally mapping the intricate web of lies and power he'd uncovered, when a soft, urgent knock came at the door of the Oak Lane house.
Will answered, returning a moment later with a small, sealed parchment. No name, no crest. Just a fold of high-quality paper sealed with a drop of plain wax. Renly broke it, his eyes scanning the brief, precise script within:
'The Silver Quill. Noon. Come alone.'
-Anya
It was Anya's hand. The message was as sharp and unadorned as the woman herself. The Silver Quill was a respectable but unremarkable restaurant deep in the artisan's quarter, a place where two people could talk without drawing the attention of either cutpurses or courtiers.
---
He arrived exactly at noon, finding the place half-full with the lunchtime crowd—scribes, minor merchants, and a few off-duty guards. The air was thick with the smell of roasting fowl and fresh bread. Anya was already there, seated in a booth at the back, shrouded in shadow. She wore a simple, dark grey tunic that blurred the lines between civilian wear and a guardsman's gear. A half-finished plate of stew sat before her, but her posture was rigid, her eyes constantly scanning the room.
He slid into the seat opposite her. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, two players in a game whose rules were still being written.
"The findings from the Pass gas been checked out," she began, her voice low and direct, cutting through the pleasant hum of conversation. "The wax seal. I've had it verified."
Renly said nothing, just waited. He could feel the weight of her next words before she spoke them.
"It's genuine. It's from the Duke of Ironwood's personal chancellery." She let that hang in the air, a verdict that confirmed his descent into a deeper, more dangerous world. "The bandits weren't just lucky. They were a tool."
"To disrupt Count Rose's trade with Count Blackstone," Renly finished, his voice equally quiet. "To stop the Velyn healing potions from reaching the sick heir."
Anya's eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her professional mask. "You've been busy. The Gray Market?"
Renly gave a single, slight nod. He saw no point in denying it. Bary, the grizzled old mercernary who'd first shown him the city's underbelly, would have been proud, or perhaps concerned.
"The information checks out," Anya confirmed, leaning forward. Her next words were barely a whisper. "My role here is not what it seems. I am not merely a guardsman assigned to the city watch. I am a sworn sword to Lady Elara, daughter of Count Rose. I was placed within the City Guard because we are stretched thin. The Count's forces are committed to the borders, and the Prince's faction, primarily the Duke of Ironwood, is waging a silent war of subversion within our own city. My true duty is to counter that."
Renly absorbed this. It made a brutal sense. The lack of experienced hands, Anya's obvious skill and discretion, her interest in a lowly guardsman who'd stumbled onto something big—it all clicked into place. He wasn't just talking to a fellow guard; he was speaking to the agent of Count's daughter.
"Which is why you're talking to me," he concluded.
"Precisely. You are an unknown, unconnected, and you've proven resourceful. That makes you valuable." She took a sip of water, her gaze piercing. "I have a contract for you. It is off the books. It does not come from the Guard Captain. It comes from me, acting on behalf of Lady Elara. The pay is 100 silver now, another two to three hundred on completion."
The sum was staggering, more than a years of wages for a Knight. It spoke volumes of the risk.
"The task?" Renly asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
"There is a noble merchant in the inner city, Baron Ricolt. He deals in textiles and luxury goods. We have… indications… that he is not just a sympathizer, but an active agent for the Ironwood faction. He is suspected of funneling money, forged documents, and even weapons to other, smaller bandit cells operating on the trade roads leading to Blackstone lands. We need proof. Names, dates, ledger entries. Anything that ties him directly to the Duke."
Renly felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This wasn't hunting bandits in the wilds. This was spying on a noble, within the heart of the city's power. Getting caught wouldn't mean a quick fight; it would mean a slow, torturous death in a dungeon, or a public execution for treason. He was being asked to stick his hand directly into the lion's maw, and the lion was a Duke.
He met Anya's steely gaze. The risk was immense, a yawning chasm of potential failure. But on the other side was everything he needed. It was a fast track, not just into the Count's confidence, but into the inner circle of a major power. The resources, the knowledge, the protection—it was the path to becoming more than just a man with a rusty sword and a head full of theoretical research. It was the path to real power.
"I'll do it," he said, his voice firm, belying the chill in his veins. "But I have a condition."
Anya raised an eyebrow, a silent command to continue.
"The pay is sufficient for the immediate risk," he said. "But I am opposing a Duke. The repercussions, if I survive, will be long-term. I need more than silver. If I succeed, I want a training manual. Not the basic drills they give the guards. Something advanced. Swordsmanship, energy cultivation, anything from the Count's personal archives."
He saw the calculation in her eyes. He wasn't just a hired thug; he was investing in his own capabilities, and in doing so, making himself a more valuable asset for the future. It was a shrewd demand.
Anya was silent for a long time, weighing his request. Finally, she shook her head, but not in refusal. "I do not have the authority to grant that. Such things are closely guarded. But I will present your terms to Lady Elara. She may see the value in arming a loyal blade with more than just steel."
It was the best he could hope for. He nodded his acceptance.
"Good." She reached into a pouch at her belt and slid a small, stamped copper token across the table. "This is a temporary worker's pass for the inner city, for the Count's estate. It will get you past the checkpoints. Use it wisely. Do not draw attention to yourself. I will contact you in a week time here at same time."
With that, she stood, dropped a few coins on the table for the meal, and left without a backward glance, melting into the flow of the street outside.
Renly sat for a while longer, the copper token cool and heavy in his hand. It was a key, not just to a district, but to his future. He thought of Baron Ricolt, a spider sitting in a web of silk and shadow in the inner city. The official pass was for daylight, for blending in as a laborer or a messenger.
But Renly's talents, he felt, were better suited to the darkness.
As the afternoon light began to soften into the long shadows of early dusk, he made his decision. He returned to Oak Lane, exchanging his knight's tunic for dark, nondescript clothing. He checked his gear, the familiar routine calming his nerves. The leather armor was snug, the sword's hilt a familiar comfort.
He wouldn't wait for a plan to form in the safety of his room. He needed to see the battlefield. He needed to look upon Baron Ricolt's manor, to feel its rhythms and learn its shadows.
When the sun dipped below the city walls, painting the sky in hues of violet and orange, Renly slipped out into the burgeoning twilight. The inner city pass was tucked safely in his pocket, a ticket to a more dangerous game. He moved with a purposeful stride, his hood pulled up against the evening chill, his eyes already scanning ahead for the high walls and guarded gates of the city's privileged heart. The investigation had begun.