The streets of the capital at dawn were a different world. The usual cacophony of vendors and crowds was replaced by the quiet shuffle of bakers and street sweepers. Eleanor moved through them like a ghost, her fine, soot-stained dress drawing more than a few curious stares. She ignored them. Her destination was a modest-looking townhouse in the merchants' quarter, a place that didn't exist on any official city map.
It was a safe house, one of a dozen she had established in her past life. A relic of the Shadow Hand's network. She didn't know if it was still operational, but it was her only option.
The door was answered by an old woman with eyes that had seen too much. She looked Eleanor up and down, her expression unreadable.
"I need a room," Eleanor said, her voice raspy. "And a message delivered."
The old woman simply nodded and stepped aside.
The next few hours were a blur of blessed anonymity. A hot bath, clean if simple clothes, and a bowl of hot stew. As she felt strength slowly seeping back into her aching body, she composed the message. It was a simple note, written on a scrap of parchment, sealed with a drop of wax but no crest.
It was addressed to Julian Vance, the enigmatic and obscenely wealthy head of the Merchants' Guild. A man she knew from her past life as a brilliant, dangerous player in the great game. A man who valued profit and information above all else. A man who hated the nobility's stranglehold on the city's commerce. A man who was, if she played her cards right, the perfect ally.
The message contained only three things: his name, an address, and a single, cryptic phrase—"The Iron Gryphon bleeds."
It was a gamble. The Iron Gryphon was the name of a shipping company secretly owned by her husband, Marcus Reid, a fact known to only a handful of people. It was the primary vehicle for his smuggling operations. By revealing she knew its name, she was showing her hand. She was proving she had information worth paying for.
She spent the rest of the day in a fitful, pain-filled sleep. When she woke, the sun was setting, and a man was sitting in a chair in the corner of her small room.
He was impeccably dressed, a sword-cane resting against his knee. His face was handsome, but it was his eyes that held Eleanor's attention. They were the color of dark honey, intelligent and unnervingly perceptive. He looked at Eleanor not as a disheveled refugee in a safe house, but as a complex puzzle he was slowly, carefully solving. It was Julian Vance.
"Lady Eleanor," he said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. "You have had a remarkably eventful night. Most people who find themselves in a burning building do not end it by sending cryptic messages to the head of the Merchants' Guild. One develops a certain curiosity."
Eleanor sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She ignored the protest of her bruised muscles. "Curiosity is the currency of the intelligent, Master Vance. I assumed you were a wealthy man."
A slow smile touched his lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "I am. And I am always looking for new investments. The Iron Gryphon is a… delicate subject. To know its name is one thing. To know that it 'bleeds,' as you so poetically put it, suggests a deeper level of knowledge."
"It's more than bleeding," Eleanor said, her voice cold and steady. "It's hemorrhaging. My husband has been using it to smuggle untaxed Arcane components for the past six months. A fact that, if it reached the Emperor's Inquisitors, would see him stripped of his title and assets before the next moon."
Julian leaned forward, his interest sharpening. This was more than corporate espionage. This was treason. "And why would you, his loving wife, be willing to share such a… damaging secret?"
"Because my loving husband locked me in my chambers and set them on fire last night," she replied, her tone flat and devoid of emotion. She held up her bandaged hands. "He was not as thorough as he should have been."
Julian's eyes flickered to her hands, and for a brief moment, something other than calculation crossed his face. It was a flicker of genuine shock, perhaps even a hint of respect. He had come here expecting to deal with a scorned wife looking for petty revenge. He was realizing, Eleanor could tell, that he was dealing with something else entirely.
"I see," he said slowly. "And what is it you want from me?"
"I want a partnership," Eleanor said. "You want to break the nobility's power over the city's trade. My husband and his allies are a key part of that power structure. I have the information to dismantle them, piece by piece. You have the resources and the network to act on that information without revealing my hand."
"A dangerous proposition," he mused. "You are asking me to wage a shadow war against a powerful lord, based on the word of his estranged, and officially deceased, wife."
"I am offering you an opportunity to cripple your chief rival and absorb his assets for pennies on the dollar," she corrected him. "All I ask for in return is my safety, your resources, and a fifty-percent share of the profits seized from the Reid family holdings."
He was silent for a long time, his fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the silver head of his cane. He was weighing the risks, calculating the potential returns. He was a merchant, after all. Everything was a transaction.
"You are not the woman the world thinks you are, Lady Eleanor," he said finally.
"The woman the world thought I was is a pile of ash and bone," she replied, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You have the chance to be an ally to the person I am now. I suggest you consider the offer carefully. I doubt you will get a second one."
The challenge hung in the air between them, sharp and clear. This wasn't just a business proposal. It was a move on the great board, and she had just offered him a powerful, unpredictable piece. His eyes met hers, and she saw the decision being made. The merchant was done calculating. The player was ready to make his move.