The air in Port Mire's lower market was a thick stew of salt, sweat, and the sharp tang of drying fish. It clung to the back of Finn's throat, a constant reminder of where he stood on the city's ledger: somewhere near the bottom. He moved with a practiced economy, his eyes scanning the shifting currents of the crowd—the dockhands with their calloused palms, the merchants with their clipped accents, the children with their quick, hungry fingers. Every face was a potential entry, a debt to be paid or a line of credit to be drawn.
He stopped at a stall where flatbreads sizzled over a charcoal brazier, the scent a small island of warmth in the damp air. The vendor, a heavy-set man named Borin, wiped his hands on a stained apron. "Finn. The usual?"
Finn nodded, pushing two small copper coins across the worn wood. Borin's eyes narrowed. "The ledger's changed since yesterday. The tide's gone up. It's four coppers today."
A lie. A lazy one. Before Finn could counter, a shadow fell over the counter. A street tough named Roric, broad as a barrel and smelling of cheap ale, leaned in with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "And you still owe me for last week's wager, Finn. Let's call it another four."
Finn didn't look at Roric. He kept his gaze on Borin, his mind working. He couldn't afford eight coppers, and showing weakness here was like bleeding in shark-infested waters. He stalled for time, rearranging his remaining coins into a small, neat stack. "A wager is a wager, Roric," he said, his voice even. "But I seem to recall the tide was running against you at the Serpent's Tooth table last night. A man who can't cover his own debts shouldn't be so quick to collect on others."
The tough's grin faltered. A few nearby listeners paused, their interest piqued. Finn pressed the advantage, his voice dropping slightly. "Forget the wager," he proposed, his tone reasonable. "And I'll forget I saw you begging coin from the silk-trader's boy. A public loss on the ledger for a private one." He was bluffing about the trader's boy, but the crowd's sudden attention gave the lie weight. Roric's face flushed. He grunted, a low sound of fury and reluctant acceptance, and pushed away from the stall. But as he melted back into the crowd, his smirk returned, a silent promise of a debt to be collected later, in a darker alley. In the moment he turned, Finn's eyes caught a faded mark on the wall behind him: the graffiti of a coiled serpent, its tail eating its own head.
The victory was small and tasted of ash. Before Finn could collect his bread, the current shifted again. Roric's friends began to detach themselves from the flow of the crowd, their movements too deliberate, their eyes fixed on him. Finn's hand drifted to the hilt of the small, weighted knife hidden in his sleeve. The crowd sensed the change and began to pull away, leaving him in a bubble of sudden, sharp silence.
Then, a man stepped into the space. He wasn't large like Roric, but the crowd parted for him as if he were a ship's prow cutting through water. He moved with a quiet purpose that was more intimidating than any shouted threat. He laid a hand on the shoulder of the first tough, a gesture that was almost gentle, and murmured something too low for Finn to hear. The effect was immediate. The tough's bravado evaporated, replaced by a flicker of fear. He muttered a curse and signaled his crew to step back.
The man turned his gaze to Finn. His eyes were dark and assessing, taking in Finn's worn clothes, his steady hands, and the half-paid-for bread on the counter. He measured him, weighed him, and added him to some internal ledger of his own. Without a word, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then turned and disappeared back into the market's tide, leaving Finn with his two copper coins, his cold flatbread, and the unsettling feeling of having just been entered into a game whose rules he did not yet understand.