Chapter 5: The Streets Speak (74 AC, Age 6)
By the age of six, the hovel had become too small a world for Maric. His family, stabilized by his subtle manipulations, had settled into a new, less desperate rhythm. They were still poor, still residents of the grimiest slum in the capital, but the wolf was no longer scratching at the door; it was merely howling from the end of the street. Kael, guided by his brother's unseen hand, had become an astoundingly efficient provider of scrap and trade goods. Lara's larder was rarely completely bare. This fragile stability gave Maric what he craved most: opportunity. He was no longer just a lucky charm to be kept close; he was a clever boy, and clever boys, Lara reasoned, needed to explore.
His explorations were not the aimless wanderings of a child. They were reconnaissance missions. He had a map of Flea Bottom in his head, but it was a map drawn by a distant general, full of territories marked in broad strokes and names gleaned from secondhand gossip. He needed to walk the ground himself. He needed to understand the terrain, feel its pulse, and learn the language it spoke—a language not of words, but of furtive glances, sudden silences, and the ambient threat that clung to the air like the ever-present stench of the Blackwater Rush.
To do this, he needed a guide. A native. An interpreter. He could not approach the denizens of this world as Maric, the quiet boy from Pisswater Bend. He needed a proxy, an intermediary who was already part of the system. He needed to recruit his first asset from outside the family unit. The search did not take long. In the chaotic, target-rich environment of Flea Bottom, potential assets were everywhere, though most were liabilities masquerading as opportunities. He needed someone with the right blend of skill, desperation, and predictability. He found him near the baker's stall on the Street of Flour.
The boy was perhaps seven or eight, a wiry bundle of rags and bones held together by a nervous, kinetic energy. He had a thatch of dirty blond hair, a smear of grime on his cheek that looked permanent, and eyes that were a startlingly bright blue, constantly darting, assessing, calculating. He moved with the jittery confidence of a sparrow, ready to take flight at the slightest provocation. Maric had seen him before, a face in the shifting crowds of street urchins. He watched as the boy feigned interest in a stray dog, his gaze fixed on a tray of hot meat pies the baker's wife had just set out to cool.
It was a classic, clumsy setup. The boy was going to attempt a snatch-and-grab. A low-percentage play, Maric assessed. The baker was a burly man with thick arms, and his wife had a notoriously sharp tongue and an even sharper eye. The boy would be caught. He would be beaten.
Maric could have simply watched the lesson unfold. Instead, he saw an investment opportunity.
He casually shuffled closer to the stall, positioning himself near a precarious stack of empty wicker baskets. As the urchin made his move, darting forward with surprising speed, Maric "tripped." His small body collided with the baskets, sending them tumbling into the street with a loud clatter.
"Oy! Watch it, you little demon!" the baker's wife shrieked, her attention instantly diverted. The baker turned, his face contorting in anger at the new disturbance.
It was only a second, two at most. But in the world of the streets, a second is a lifetime. The urchin, his blue eyes wide with surprise, did not hesitate. His hand, quick as a viper, shot out and plucked a meat pie from the tray. He was gone before the baker's wife had even finished her curse, melting into the crowd like a phantom.
Maric, for his part, played his role to perfection. He burst into tears, whimpering about his scraped knee, a picture of childish clumsiness. The baker, seeing no real harm done, gave him a cuff on the ear and a gruff order to clear off, then returned to his stall, grumbling about the plague of children underfoot. Maric sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and hobbled away, his eyes scanning the alleyways.
He found the boy in a dead-end alley cluttered with empty wine casks, wolfing down the stolen pie with a ferocity that spoke of profound hunger. He didn't flinch when Maric entered the alley, but his chewing slowed, and his bright blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"What you want?" the boy demanded through a mouthful of pastry and gravy.
Maric remained by the entrance, keeping a safe distance. He didn't answer the question. He asked one of his own, his voice quiet and even. "Why him? The baker is fast."
The boy swallowed. "Best pies."
"The fishmonger is fat," Maric continued, his gaze unwavering. "His hands are slow. He keeps smoked herring in a barrel by the door. Easy to reach. Less risk."
The urchin stared at him, a complex mixture of suspicion, confusion, and dawning respect in his eyes. This strange, quiet little boy wasn't asking for a share. He wasn't threatening to tell. He was offering a critique. He was talking strategy.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, his bravado softening slightly.
"Maric."
"I'm Finn," he said, puffing out his chest a little. "And I didn't need your help."
"Yes, you did," Maric stated, not as an accusation, but as a simple fact. "You were caught. I gave you a second. A second is worth half a pie."
Finn's mouth opened, then closed. He looked at the half-eaten pastry in his hand, then back at Maric. The cold, irrefutable logic of the statement was a language he understood far better than kindness or threats. He hesitated, then broke the remaining pie in two and held out the larger piece. "Here."
Maric accepted it without a word. He sat down on an overturned bucket, and they ate in a silence that was not awkward, but professional. The first transaction was complete. The alliance was forged.
Finn became Maric's guide to the city's secret underbelly. He was a living encyclopedia of the streets, and Maric, with his quiet questions and intense focus, was his most dedicated student. In their first weeks together, Maric learned the true rhythm of Flea Bottom. It was a complex, polyphonic symphony of survival. He learned that the beggars by the Great Sept of Baelor were not all blind or crippled; some were the eyes and ears of the City Watch, trading scraps of information for a measure of protection. He learned that the children who ran messages for the brothels on the Street of Silk were fiercely territorial and had a system of coded whistles to warn of approaching Gold Cloaks or rival gangs.
Finn taught him the practical skills of invisibility. "Never walk in a straight line," he instructed, as they navigated a crowded thoroughfare. "Walk like water. Go where there's space." He taught Maric how to read the intent in a man's posture, how to tell a drunk from a thug, a merchant from a cutpurse. "See his eyes?" Finn would whisper, nodding towards a man in a fine but dirty doublet. "He ain't lookin' at the goods. He's lookin' at the purses. He's a dip."
In return, Maric provided the strategy that elevated their partnership from simple scavenging to a profitable enterprise. He was the brain; Finn was the hands and feet. Maric's past life as a mafia boss had been built on understanding systems and exploiting their weaknesses. Flea Bottom, he discovered, was just another system, albeit one that ran on desperation instead of greed.
He devised schemes of a cunning simplicity that Finn, for all his street smarts, could never have conceived. He noticed that the acolytes at the local septry burned a specific type of incense, the scent of which clung to their robes. He also knew from Kael's ventures that a merchant near the Old Gate paid a decent price for the rare marsh-herbs that produced a similar scent. Maric had Finn "accidentally" spill a bucket of muddy water on an acolyte, then offer to clean his robes for a copper as an apology. While "cleaning," Finn would stuff the pockets of his own tunic with the herbs Maric had gathered from a patch of marshland Kael had discovered. They would then sell the herbs to the merchant. It was a multi-step operation involving misdirection, information arbitrage, and plausible deniability. To Finn, it was like magic.
"How do you think of this stuff, Maric?" he asked one day, his pockets heavy with coppers after a successful venture.
Maric just shrugged, his face impassive. "I see things."
He let Finn believe he was the leader. He would frame every plan as a question. "Finn, what if we…?" "Do you think it would work if…?" He fed Finn's ego, praised his speed and bravery, and always gave him the slightly larger share of the profits. He was binding his first soldier to him not with fear, but with success. Finn, who had never known a full belly or a safe night's sleep, found that his association with the strange, quiet boy resulted in both. Loyalty, Maric knew, was a simple matter of providing a better return on investment than any competitor.
Through Finn's running commentary, Maric's mental map of the underworld blossomed into a rich, three-dimensional tapestry of personalities and power dynamics. The gangs were no longer just names; they were stories, faces, and vulnerabilities.
"See him?" Finn whispered one afternoon, pointing with his chin at a hulking man swaggering down the street, two other thugs in his wake. The man had the familiar hawk tattoo on his neck. "That's Galt. The one I told you about. Mean as a snake and twice as ugly."
Maric's heart gave a single, hard thud. Galt. In the flesh. He was bigger than Maric remembered from that terrifying night in the hovel, his presence more brutish and imposing. He watched the man shove a vendor out of his way without breaking stride, laughing as the poor man's wares scattered in the mud. The cold, precise hatred Maric had been nurturing for years flared, sharp and clean. He committed every detail to memory: the way Galt walked, the men he was with, the direction he was heading.
"He works for the Ragman," Finn continued, oblivious to the storm in Maric's mind. "They all do. The Ragman runs everything from here to the river. Never see him, though. They say he lives in the sewers like a real rat."
This was invaluable. He now had a name for the top of the pyramid. The Ragman. A faceless king who ruled from the shadows. Maric respected the style.
Finn was also his key to identifying future assets. "That's Lyra," he said, pointing to a skinny girl of about nine who was scaling the sheer wall of a warehouse with the ease of a squirrel. "She can climb anything." Asset: Infiltration, scouting. "And that's Pip," he said, nodding to a small, silent boy sitting on a stoop, his wide eyes missing nothing. "Never talks. But he sees everything." Asset: Surveillance.
Maric filed the names and skills away. He was not just making a friend; he was building a roster.
Their partnership was not without its dangers. The streets were a treacherous place, and their increased activity drew attention. One evening, they were enjoying a rare treat—a pair of apples "liberated" from a cart—in their rooftop sanctuary, a flat section of roof overlooking the main thoroughfare. As they were talking, a shadow fell over them.
Three older boys, teenagers from the look of them, cornered them on the roof. They were not gang members, just common bullies, but they were bigger, stronger, and radiated the casual cruelty of those who have always been able to take what they want. Their leader, a lanky boy with greasy hair and a cruel twist to his lips, grinned.
"Well, look what we have here," he sneered. "Two little rats with our apples."
Finn shot to his feet, his body tense. "We found them!"
"You're a liar," the leader said, stepping forward. "And thieves need to be taught a lesson."
Maric remained seated. His mind was not on the immediate threat, but on the long-term implications. This was a test. Not just of their ability to survive, but of his control over his asset. How would Finn react under pressure? How would he react? His secret, his most powerful weapon—the gift of essence—was unusable. To kill here, to reveal strength beyond his years, would be to destroy his entire operational security. He had to rely on his wits alone.
He watched as the bullies advanced on Finn. He saw the fear in his friend's eyes, hidden beneath a thin veneer of bravado. He saw the leader's overconfidence. And he saw an opportunity.
Just as the leader reached for Finn, Maric spoke, his voice quiet but carrying an odd, chilling authority. "He has the grey-scale."
The leader stopped dead, his hand hovering in mid-air. He and his cronies turned to stare at Maric. "What did you say?"
Maric pointed a small, steady finger at Finn. "On his leg. He showed me yesterday. Said it's starting to itch." He looked up at the leader, his eyes wide and full of a terrible, feigned innocence. "Is it true it makes your skin hard like a rock and you die screaming?"
A wave of pure, primal fear washed over the bullies' faces. Grey-scale. It was a name whispered in terror, a death sentence more feared than any plague. The idea of it being here, now, on this rooftop, was unthinkable.
Finn, catching on with the quickness of a survivor, immediately started scratching at his leg, a look of theatrical misery on his face.
The leader took a stumbling step back. "You're lying!"
"His pa died of it last month," Maric said, the lie flowing as smoothly as water. "In the Rookery. They burned the body. But I think it's too late."
That was all it took. The bullies didn't wait for another word. They scrambled over each other to get away, their threats forgotten in a panicked retreat. In seconds, they were gone.
Silence descended on the rooftop. Finn stopped scratching his leg and looked at Maric, his blue eyes wide with a new kind of awe, an emotion that went beyond respect for his clever schemes. It was fear.
"Seven hells, Maric," he breathed. "How did you…?"
"They are strong," Maric said calmly, taking a bite of his apple. "But they are stupid. Fear is a better weapon than a fist."
He watched Finn closely. He had just revealed a sliver of his true nature, the part of him that understood human weakness with a terrifying clarity. He needed to see how his asset would process this new data.
Finn didn't run. He sat back down, a thoughtful, unnerved expression on his face. He looked at Maric not as a partner, but as something else. Something older. Something dangerous. But also, something that made him feel safe. In the violent, chaotic world of Flea Bottom, being friends with the most dangerous thing on the rooftop was the smartest play of all.
As twilight bled across the sky, casting long shadows over the sprawling maze below, Maric knew he had cemented his control. Finn was no longer just an ally of convenience. He was bound to Maric by a cord of profit, success, and now, a healthy dose of fear.
He looked out over the kingdom of filth and desperation. It was no longer an incomprehensible, hostile territory. It was his. The streets had spoken to him, through Finn, and he had learned their language. He was beginning to understand their secrets. And with that understanding came the certainty that he could, and would, bend them to his will. The boy at his side was the first brick in the wall of his new organization. There would be more.