The silence that followed Garrett's words stretched like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Dust could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, could smell the smoke and sweat and ale that permeated the tavern's back room. Every face around him wore the same expression—anticipation mixed with the casual cruelty of men who had seen violence become routine.
"You see," Garrett continued, his voice conversational as he rolled the silver coin between his fingers, "reputation isn't built on mercy. It's built on consistency. People need to know that crossing Marcus Garrett has consequences—real consequences."
He set the coin down with a soft clink and looked directly at Dust. "Twenty silver pieces is a nice gesture. But it doesn't erase the fact that you embarrassed me in front of my men. It doesn't undo the example you set for others who might think they can interfere with my business."
Dust felt the rope cutting into his wrists, felt the glass shard Clara had hidden in his cloak pressing against his shoulder blade. So close, but he couldn't reach it without drawing attention.
"However," Garrett said, and something in his tone made everyone lean forward slightly, "I'm not an unreasonable man. You walked in here voluntarily. You brought payment without being asked. That shows... character."
The larger man who had escorted Dust shifted uncomfortably. "Boss?"
"I'm thinking, Willem." Garrett's fingers drummed against the table. "The question is: how do we turn this situation to everyone's advantage?"
Dust didn't like the calculating look in the man's pale eyes. In his experience, when criminals started talking about mutual advantage, someone was about to get betrayed.
"I have a proposition for you, boy," Garrett said suddenly. "A way for you to work off your debt—both the silver and the insult."
"What kind of work?" Dust asked carefully.
"The kind that uses your... particular talents." Garrett gestured vaguely. "You move through this city like smoke. People don't notice you, don't remember seeing you. That's a valuable skill in my line of business."
"You want me to spy for you."
"I want you to be my eyes and ears. Watch. Listen. Report back on what you see and hear." Garrett leaned forward slightly. "Do this for, say, six months, and we'll call all debts settled. The old woman's silver debt, your debt of insult—everything wiped clean."
Dust felt a chill that had nothing to do with the tavern's temperature. Six months working for Marcus Garrett. Six months of carrying messages, gathering information, probably participating in things that would stain his soul permanently.
But also six months of staying alive.
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
Garrett's smile was thin as winter ice. "Then we settle accounts the traditional way. Here. Tonight."
Around the room, several men shifted positions slightly, hands moving toward concealed weapons. The message was clear—there were only two ways Dust was leaving this room. As Garrett's newest employee, or as a corpse.
"I need time to think," Dust said.
"Time is a luxury you don't have." Garrett picked up another silver coin, examining it in the lamplight. "But I'm feeling generous tonight. Willem, take our young friend to the cellar. Let him contemplate his options in private for... oh, let's say an hour."
The scarred man stepped forward and grabbed Dust's arm. "Come on, boy. Time for you to get acquainted with our accommodations."
The cellar beneath the tavern was everything Dust had expected and worse. Stone walls slick with moisture, air that smelled of rot and despair, iron rings set into the floor where prisoners could be chained. A single candle provided flickering light that cast dancing shadows on the walls.
Willem pushed Dust down onto a wooden stool, then checked the knots on his wrists. Satisfied that the bonds were secure, he headed back toward the stairs.
"One hour," he said. "Use it wisely."
The door slammed shut, and Dust heard the heavy bar sliding into place on the other side. He was alone in the darkness with his thoughts and his fear.
But also with Clara's gift.
Moving carefully, Dust worked his shoulders against the back of the stool, trying to position the glass shard where he could reach it with his bound hands. The rope was tight, cutting circulation to his fingers and making them clumsy, but desperation gave him patience.
After what felt like an eternity, he managed to work the shard free from his cloak. The thin piece of glass was sharp enough to cut, but using it meant risking slicing his own wrists if his numb fingers slipped.
Above him, he could hear the tavern's normal sounds—voices, laughter, the scrape of chairs across wooden floors. Life going on while he sat in the dark, contemplating a future that offered only unpalatable choices.
Work for Garrett and become part of the criminal network that preyed on people like Clara. Refuse, and die in this cellar while the Sea Witch sailed away without him.
Unless...
Dust began working the glass shard against the rope, sawing with tiny, careful motions. The bonds were thick and well-tied, but glass was sharp and rope was just fiber. It would take time, but it could be done.
The question was whether he had enough time.
As he worked, cutting strand by strand, Dust found his mind drifting to Captain Aldrich's words at the harbor. You can't save everyone, son. Sometimes the best you can do is save yourself.
Maybe the captain was right. Maybe trying to help Clara had been foolish from the start. Maybe the smart thing was to accept Garrett's offer, work off his debt, and hope to escape with his soul relatively intact.
But then he remembered Clara's bruised face, her frightened voice begging Garrett's men not to hurt her dying husband. He thought of all the other people in Lower Ashmark who lived in fear of men like Garrett—who paid protection money they couldn't afford, who suffered in silence because fighting back seemed impossible.
One strand of rope parted under the glass. Then another.
Above him, the tavern's sounds continued unchanged. No one was coming to check on him yet. He still had time.
As he worked, Dust began to form a plan. It was desperate, probably doomed to fail, but it was better than sitting helplessly while others decided his fate. Clara had shown him that even frightened people could find courage when they needed it. Maybe it was time for him to do the same.
The last strand of rope separated, and Dust's hands came free. He flexed his fingers, trying to restore circulation while he listened for any sound from upstairs. Nothing had changed—he was still alone in the cellar.
But not for much longer.
Moving quietly, Dust examined his prison more carefully. The stone walls were solid, but the door was wood—old wood, judging by the way it had creaked when Willem closed it. And there was something else...
In the far corner, partially hidden by shadows, was a pile of old barrels and crates. Storage from when this cellar had been used for legitimate purposes. And behind them, if Dust's eyes weren't deceiving him in the flickering candlelight, was another door.
He crept across the floor, stepping carefully to avoid making noise. The second door was smaller than the first, barely large enough for a person to squeeze through. It looked like it might have been a coal chute or delivery entrance, back when this building served a different purpose.
Dust pressed his ear against the wood and listened. Nothing. No voices, no footsteps. Just the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness beyond.
He tried the handle. Locked, but the wood around the mechanism was soft with age and moisture. Using the glass shard as a pry bar, Dust began working at the lock, trying to force it without making noise.
Above him, a chair scraped against the floor. Voices grew slightly louder, then faded again. His hour was passing quickly.
The lock gave way with a soft click, and the door swung inward on rusty hinges. Beyond was a narrow tunnel that seemed to lead away from the tavern—probably part of the old sewer system that connected many of Lower Ashmark's basements.
Dust hesitated for a moment, looking back at the cellar where he'd been imprisoned. Walking through that tunnel meant abandoning any chance of working off his debt through Garrett's terms. It meant becoming a fugitive again, hunted and desperate.
But it also meant choosing his own path, rather than having it chosen for him.
He squeezed through the narrow door and into the tunnel beyond, pulling the door closed behind him. The darkness was absolute now, but he could feel a faint current of air that suggested the passage led somewhere.
As he felt his way forward, step by careful step, Dust heard a sound that made his blood freeze—the bar being lifted from the cellar door above.
His hour was up.