The tent closed behind them with a sigh of heavy fabric, shutting out the clamor of the market. Inside, the air was warm, thick with sandalwood smoke. Silk cushions and low tables laden with figs, honey, and spiced wine gave the place the feel of a throne room carved out of canvas.
Mercia reclined with practiced grace, gesturing for D'rail to sit opposite. "Please. Wine? Or do lords of shadow not indulge in such simple vices?"
D'rail perched on the edge of the cushion, hood lowered. "I'm not much of a—"
She poured anyway, sliding the goblet across with a jeweled fingertip. "Good. One must always drink with a liar to measure how much they spill."
The word snapped through him like a whip. His hand trembled, nearly knocking the goblet over. "Excuse me?"
Her smile sharpened. "Oh, don't look so shocked. I admire liars. Half of trade is lying, the other half is making others grateful for being lied to. The trick, my dear PhantomLord, is lying with… returns."
D'rail forced a laugh, thin and fragile. "Well, I'm more of a—hobbyist liar. Amateur league. You know, small stakes—"
"Small stakes?" She leaned forward, eyes glinting. "You've already ensnared a knight, gathered worshippers, and sparked whispers in guildhalls. Men pray for the chance to be seen by you. That is not small stakes."
D'rail opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Mercia plucked a fig, tearing it delicately. "What you need is a steward. Someone to manage your holdings, expand your influence, and handle the tedious details of coin and contract. In short: me."
"I don't… have holdings."
She tilted her head. "Not yet."
"I don't… want holdings."
"You will. Power attracts power. Better you let me catch it neatly in my nets than let it clutter at your feet."
Her words spun around him like silk threads, binding tighter with every sentence. He tried to wriggle free, finding humor his only weapon. "And what's in it for you, Lady Weaver?"
"Profit," she said simply. "You will be the mask. I will be the purse. Together we shall build a kingdom — yours in name, mine in ledger." She sipped her wine. "All I require is your… silence. Nod when I speak, let them believe what they wish, and you'll always have plenty of coin."
D'rail slumped, resting his head in his palms. "This feels like extortion with extra embroidery."
Mercia laughed softly. "Everything worth doing is. But consider: without me, your story will collapse under its own contradictions. With me, it becomes… sustainable."
She raised her glass in a mock toast. "To the lie that pays for itself."
D'rail muttered into his goblet, "And the liar who can't afford to refuse…"
The tent flaps burst open before D'rail could invent an excuse to flee. Mercia swept out, arm hooked through his like a queen escorting her king. The morning sun struck her rings and bangles, scattering shards of light.
"Citizens of Briarhold!" Her voice lifted, rehearsed and authoritative. The chatter of the marketplace quieted. "Behold, Lord D'rail Eurt, patron of silence, successor of shadows, and unseen master!"
D'rail blinked. "I—what?"
The crowd rippled with wonder. Merchants bowed; apprentices pressed forward, eyes aglow. Someone actually crossed themselves, mumbling prayers.
Mercia leaned close, whispering between her painted lips: "Say nothing. I'll translate."
A heavyset cloth merchant lumbered up first, bowing low. "My lord, I would pledge a share of my caravans if only you'd bless them with your strategy. Which road should they take?"
D'rail stammered, "Uh… roads are… dangerous."
Mercia spread her hands as though he'd delivered prophecy. "You hear him! The Phantom Lord warns us: the obvious road is death. He counsels discretion, the hidden path. Trust the silence!"
The merchant gasped, clutching his chest. "Of course! I'll take the river route. Genius!"
Another stepped forward, a jeweler glittering with gold. "My lord, should I expand into the north markets?"
D'rail muttered, "I wouldn't… go north, too cold."
Mercia's eyes gleamed. "Behold his wisdom! The north is frozen with enemies. Invest instead where warmth thrives — southward, where gold flows like sun!"
The jeweler nearly wept, bowing again and again.
Behind them, Vaunt loomed like a statue, nodding gravely. "Every word is shrouded, every meaning layered. This is how true lords speak — so that only the worthy understand."
No, you lunatic, D'rail screamed silently inside his mind. I'm just shivering.
But there was no stopping it. One after another, wealthy patrons begged for guidance. A baker. A spice merchant. A man with three ships on the river. Each time D'rail fumbled some nervous mutter, and each time Mercia spun it into legend — trade advice, political doctrine, even veiled threats.
By noon, the crowd was thick enough to clog the square, spilling into the streets. Whispers spread like wildfire: The Phantom Lord walks the market. He blesses ventures. He speaks in riddles only the wise can hear.
D'rail's head spun. He'd meant to disappear. Instead, he was being elevated into myth, gilded and paraded like a relic.
Mercia pressed a heavy purse into his hand as they finally broke away. "Your cut," she said breezily. "Gifts, tributes, investments. They'll only grow larger. You're welcome."
The purse jingled. D'rail's stomach lurched.
The more they pay me, the more I'll owe when this lie comes crashing down.