“Okay. Why the red lipstick?” Reeva hissed under her breath.

  “It brings out your eyes?” Boras replied helpfully.

  Reeva formed a fist and gestured it towards Boras's face. “Boras… Do not mock me. ”

  The trio stood around the corner of a large establishment, in an alley that was as shady as they could be. Torrance had stopped them to check on their appearances. Maraby, at Torrance’s request, was sent to gather suitable attire for their official meeting with Victor Sade. They could not go as they were yesterday, nor this morning. Covered in dirt and grime, smelling of shit and mud. Victor would kill them rather than see them. So they were given fresh clothes that a respectable merchant of the upper-middle class would appreciate.

  Reeva was begrudgingly placed in a travelling dress of light green. She was allowed to keep her boots, which wouldn’t have been seen beyond her petticoat regardless. But her wilder hair was washed and tied into a prudish back-bun and she was given ruby-red lipstick. According to Torrance, the lipstick complimented her caramel skin whilst Boras suggested it brought out her eyes. No matter how it looked on her, Reeva hated the acrylic scent the make-up gave off. It felt unnatural as a hunter to give away such a pungent scent. It felt so impractical…

  She looked over to the boys.

  Arcos and Boras wore waistcoats of dark browns and reds, with equally coloured trousers, lighter shirts, buckled shoes and long overcoats. Arcos was not very invested in his attire, unlike his comrade. Boras ate it up. He strutted like a peacock, patting down his clothes for dust and holding up his hat. But with an occasional glance towards the aloof Arcos, Boras would glower. Reeva understood why.

  Once Arcos had cleaned himself up and combed back his light blonde hair, he looked quite dashing. Tall with wide shoulders and a brooding expression, Reeva was not surprised for the Nightgirl Nerisity to fall for him. And even Reeva herself had to admit, if the gods had devised her interests to be directed towards men instead of women, she may have asked Arcos out. But no, he was not her type. He was a brother to her and it was exactly how she liked it. Not like Boras, who had on numerous occasions and despite her threats of violence, attempted to court her. Boras was hopeless when it came to girls.

  Boras sighed deeply as he adjusted his neck collar for the fifth time after turning from Arcos. She allowed a small grin that faded as quickly as it had appeared. Despite his boorish nature, it felt pleasing to see Boras put so much care in his attire.

  Now here they were, later that evening, waiting for Torrance to finish prepping himself.

  Turning from his adjustments, Boras grinned at the sight of Reeva’s petulant grimace. “It looks good on you, seriously!” Boras raised a hand at her threatening fist.

  Reeva sighed inwardly. Boras was such an idiot.

  “Another word, Boras, I swear to the Black.” Reeva growled.

  Torrance gently guided Reeva’s hand down whilst adjusting his cravat. He tucked the cravat down into his own dark brown and green waistcoat that was washed and prepped for this meeting. After straightening his sleeves, he pushed back his vermilion hair.

  “Quit your jibing. This is a busy establishment, very popular. People will be looking at us, since it's me that is coming along. I would like it, if it is possible, that you three try not to cause a scene whilst you’re in there.”

  Arcos, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, sighed deeply.

  Boras tugged at his neck collar and sighed. “Ugh… Why can’t we just sneak in and take Victor prisoner? Force him to cancel the debt, give us what we need and then release him afterwards? Sounds simpler that way.”

  Torrance rolled his eyes. “And I have already explained this to you, Boras, for the fourth time. We cannot. Victor has more connections in this city and beyond it than you have hairs on your wrist. You hurt him, kidnap him, or kill him, then you’ll be living with a target on your back for the rest of your life.”

  “We’re not exactly living safely at the moment,” Boras pointed out. Reeva punched his shoulder in response to that.

  “Boras, please,” Reeva said. “Let’s try it Torrance’s way. He knows the city better than we do.”

  Arcos looked to Boras with a steady glare. “Boras. Don’t be an arse.”

  Boras gritted his teeth, but he did not make a retort. “Fine for you to say, Arcos, you look pretty good… And you’re not even making an effort, how’s that fair? … Fine, fine! Let’s go. The sooner we get what we need from this man, the better.”

  “Trust me,” Torrance added as they moved out of the alley, “if I didn’t have to go grovelling to this throat-slitter for help, I wouldn’t. I would blame Carter for putting us in this sticky situation. But I stabbed him through the neck, so it’s a bit late for that. Oh well.”

  Victor Sade’s place was a great structure of three floors with a beautifully lit facade of torches and oil lanterns. An expansive wooden sign was nailed to the porch entrance on its ground floor with brass-embossed words that read out: The Mercurial Den.

  Its design was not unlike that of the Night Tavern back in Silverstreak. But it was designed with brick walls, giving off a strength that made one a tad apprehensive about entering. But that didn’t deter the people coming in and out in two (somewhat) orderly queues.

  A variety of people surprised the trio. There were people from the Eastern Islands, in their sea-faring attire of seal leathers, shell and pearl jewellery, and weather-beaten hats and shawls. Tashiishans in their desert garbs and silks, partially hiding their faces with scarves or their hair in wondrous turbans. Darganians of the South, West, and the North. It went to show that The Mercurial Den was a successful place that thrived on cultural mixing.

  The group of four sifted through the crowds till they nearly reached the front door. Which they could see a set of three men as tall as the doors they guarded. One man had a clipboard with a list of names that he checked off with a lead pencil. The second man searched the guests’ belongings within their bags as they entered, and the third man searched the guests as they left to ensure that nothing which was not bought within left.

  Arcos shifted his eyes around the area they stood. He could see other guards. They were not as obvious as the doormen. Two men, posing as drunks, were sitting on large wooden barrels of wine that were placed across the street from The Den. They were laughing and drinking. But Arcos saw the way they were watching the people queuing up to enter. Arcos could see the telltale bulges inside their coats; their weapons. Arcos was certain there were more watching over this place, but they were better hidden. This Victor Sade was a cautious man. That made him dangerous. Arcos felt his muscles twitch with warning. They had to be on their guard.

  “I am on the list, I tell you! I am!” came a man’s protests.

  Arcos turned his head to the commotion that had just occurred at the front door.

  A quite rotund man with a small, oiled moustache and balding hair was waving his hands and crying out in a high-pitched voice not suited for his frame. His face was flushed and rosy-cheeked, a clear sign that he was drunk. He was standing with a young woman, a Nightwoman judging by her dress, and most likely his escort for the evening. But they were barred by the doorman with the clipboard.

  “Sir, as I have already stated, you are not on the list,” the doorman stated drily. “I have these names, all here for tonight. They have placed their names in advance. You have not. Therefore, you are not coming in.”

  “Don’t you know who I am?!” The denied guest howled, unwisely shaking his fist under the nose of the doorman two feet taller than him. “I am Oswald Merchant, of the Silk trade! My base of operations is the Maiden’s Glade! Your boss exports from my company’s wares weekly!”

  “Be it as it may,” the resolute doorman replied. “You have not booked in advance. No name, no entry.” The doorman stood still and unmoving like an oak.

  “Oswald,” the Nightwoman said, lightly touching Oswald’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “I will not!” Oswald yelled, shrugging off his escort’s touch. “I refuse to be humiliated like this!”

  The Nightwoman tutted, turned, and walked away without a moment’s hesitation. She passed Arcos's group, muttering under her breath that there were surely better ways to make money.

  Boras snickered at that remark. “Quite the mercenary, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah…” Arcos replied, eyes drifting.

  His memories of Nerisity, a constant shade on his mind, floated to clarity. He recalled her conversations with him on her profession. That the Nightpeople were a business built on human connection. But that connection only lasted if there was money to be had or comfort to support. A Nightperson was more than allowed to leave if they felt there would be no profit nor enjoyment to be gleaned from an arrangement. That Nightwoman was clearly on that mindset. Which made Arcos’s heart ache all the more for Nerisity. She never asked for money and never asked him to depart. She truly enjoyed his company, like that of a lover…

  Oswald seemingly did not notice his companion’s departure as his attention was fixed on the human obstacle before him.

  “Sir, you are holding up the line.” The doorman said with admirable patience. “Kindly step aside so that they may enter. “Let me in this instant!” Oswald screeched.

  The people in the line looked at one another in hushed conversations, as they watched the drama unfold. It was clear that no one wanted any part of the situation.

  Torrance crossed his arms with a resigned expression. “Here we go…”

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” Reeva asked. “He’s causing a scene.”

  Torrance nodded his head. “Indeed. But we do nothing. Mister Oswald here is determined to dig his own grave. This will be resolved in three, two, one-”

  The front door opened and another man, in similar attire as the doormen, stepped around them. He was five foot five in height, pink-skinned, well-shaped and bald. He wore copper rings on all his fingers and three copper earrings per ear with a chain copper necklace strung neatly around his neck like a choker. He looked intimidating and rough but had a pleasant smile on his face throughout.

  “Hello, hello. What seems to be the issue?” He asked. His voice was low and thick like treacle.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Ah! Finally, someone competent!” Oswald snapped, turning his drunken ire onto this new arrival. “This fool is convinced that I am not on your list! I AM. I put word out two weeks ago that I would be coming here tonight. I demand that you let me in!”

  “Of course, sir. Of course.” The new man nodded sagely. He took the clipboard from the doorman and went through the names. “Hmm… that is strange. It says here that you’re not booked for tonight. Well, I am sure we have a way to resolve this dilemma.”

  At the word ‘dilemma’, Boras noticed the sudden movements of people moving through the queues. A man and woman in darker clothes made for stealth, suddenly surging right for the oblivious Oswald. The dilemma was a code word.

  “Oh yes!” Oswald insisted. “I am certain there is! For one, I have to say that your system of keeping track of names is laughable at best. I would ask to speak with Victor to change your staff!” He shot the doorman a nasty glare.

  The bald man’s smile thinned. “Oh, I think I can arrange something of that sort…”

  He snapped his fingers. And the thugs who appeared behind Oswald pounced.

  The man and woman that Boras had seen came at Oswald from both sides and grabbed his arms. Oswald shouted in shock and tried to struggle, but not till the doorman who had been taking all the abuse during this scenario acted instantly. He put his hand into his coat, pulled out a leather cosh and with a single swipe, he brought it down hard onto Oswald’s exposed head, knocking the belligerent fool out cold.

  Oswald slumped and was dragged from the door. His pristine boots scraped against the road as he was lifted away. He was taken by the thugs towards the corner and around it, not to be seen again.

  No one said a word. Except the bald man. “My my… what on earth happened?”

  No one said anything.

  “I said, what on earth happened?” He asked again with a steady look over the people staring at him. Finally, someone in the crowd understood his meaning. “Oh gods, it was terrible. Oswald just keeled over, looked like he had a heart attack or something.”

  The bald man smiled with faked shock. “I know! So terrible, don’t worry. We’ll get him the attention he needs. Anyways, let the evening continue.” He handed the clipboard back to the doorman and was turning back towards the door when he looked towards Arcos's direction and peered. He laughed.

  “Well, set me on fire and call me a candle…” The bald man descended the steps of the porch and rushed forward. “Torrance!”

  Torrance sighed through his teeth but put on his best smile. “Good evening, Vanto.” He stepped in front of Arcos and stuck out his hand. Vanto took his hand with both of his and shook him vigorously. “I was wondering when you’d be dropping by this month. But you never said that you were coming by tonight!”

  “You know me. I like to be spontaneous.”

  “Certainly. Come on in. Come on!”

  Vanto put his hand on Torrance’s shoulder and brought him out of the queue and led him towards the front, quickly followed by the trio.

  Vanto looked over his shoulder at the trio. “Who’re they?”

  “Oh, they’re my students. I’m showing them the ropes, as you can imagine.”

  “Uh huh.” Vanto raised an eyebrow. “The Boss didn’t give you permission to restart recruiting.”

  “I know. But this is a bit of a special situation. He’d want to hear about it.”

  Vanto gave Torrance a look that was part sceptic and part curious. “Right…”

  They reached the front and the doormen stood before them. Vanto waved them aside. “Never mind with the clipboard. They’re my personal guests.”

  “Yes, sir.” The doormen replied with a stiff nod. He stepped aside and Vanto guided his personal guests into the doorway and through the short entry hall.

  Already, the trio were smacked by the scents of debauchery and excess. The smells of smoked leaf like the intoxicating Violet Leaf and the Tashiishan Sand Powder permeated the air, stinging their nostrils. The polished floorboards slightly stuck to their feet, clearly the signs of spilled alcohol and other drinks.

  They descended a series of stairs, and after three flights of steps, they reached another corridor lit by wall candles. At the end of the corridor was another door that was covered by a thick cotton curtain hanging from a brass bar and a set of rings, through which guests came in and out. It was telling to see that the guests that entered greatly differed from the ones that left. They were calm, clearheaded, and sober upon entry, only to be transformed into laughing, loosened, and sullen drunken messes on departure.

  Reeva looked to Boras sternly. “I hope you can keep yourself under control in here.”

  Boras tightened his lips as the wafting smell of ale playfully licked his nostrils. “Gods… I hope so too.”

  Vanto stopped by the curtain and looked to the three younger guests. “First time?”

  They nodded. Torrance smiled. “They’re countryfolk; this would be the place to be if they wanted to learn.”

  Vanto laughed. “A trial by fire. How typical of you, Carpenter.” He pulled over the curtain and pushed in the door. “Welcome to the Den, children. Try not to be too awestruck.”

  It was light, noise, motion, and chaos all at once. Brightly lit candelabras of mercurial silver hung in various spots on the expansive wooden ceiling, giving an early evening’s amount of light into the cavernous area, not unlike The Four Claws itself. But it was even larger, with dozens of tables spread sporadically across the main floor. All the tables were taken by scores of guests, eating and drinking and carousing with their fellow guests or friends that they had made in The Den. There were at least two hundred people in the room.

  A deep purple carpet reached from wall to wall of the space, leading a unique colour to reflect and absorb the yellow-orange candlelight. Rushing from table to table were many waiters and waitresses in slick uniforms of black and silver, carrying silver trays of foods, drinks, and other catering utensils. Occupying the right side of the Den was a lengthy drinking bar manned by five barkeeps. It put The Vanishing Ale to shame in scale, output, and operation. Guests were also seated on stools all along the bar itself, talking, yelling, laughing, and crying.

  In one corner, Arcos spied a series of tables with quiet individuals rolling dice and adding coins to piles in the centre. In another corner, he saw a group of Nightwomen and Nightmen conversing and drinking before setting out to entertain and entice the patrons of the Mercurial Den.

  It was a hubbub of life, and utterly overwhelming for the three countryfolk that witnessed it all.

  Because the entry to the Den was on a raised platform, the trio were able to see this all from a higher vantage point as Vanto waved across the view with a sweeping hand.

  “Impressed? I know. It is a sight. It took the Boss a full three years to really get this place up and running. A few greased palms here and there with a few more focused forms of persuasion gave us the means we needed. We had our opening night last week and may I say, it went without so much as a hiccup! Over in that corner, you have the gambling tables for all those poor fools that like to tangle with the Hands of Fate. They rarely win. In that area are the musicians for the week, the Boss likes to bring culture into the place, give that special… oomph to it, you know what I mean. And everywhere else, drinks, food, pleasant company, and plenty of drinks more.”

  They made their way to the ground floor of The Den and waded through the thronging tables. Men and women cheered or waved politely towards Vanto, who nodded in respectful response. Vanto reached a table that was half full of customers. But with a flick of his hand, the guests quickly stood up with apologetic nods and gave the table away.

  Arcos was impressed. If this man Vanto, clearly Victor’s right-handed man, had this much power, what would Victor be like? Arcos's curiosity was getting as unsteady as his patience. He wanted to get this over with and at the same time meet with the man who seemed to have just as much control over the city as the Barons.

  The group took their seats, while Vanto was very quickly to pull out a chair for Reeva.

  “Ma’am,” he graciously regarded her. “May I say you look very fetching tonight.”

  “Oh, uh… thanks,” Reeva flustered. She gestured at her gown. “It’s just something Torrance threw together for me.”

  “Apparently, your boss doesn’t like untidy guests,” Boras added with a smirk to Torrance, to which Torrance rolled his eye.

  Vanto shrugged. “True. Mister Sade is a man who appreciates the finer things in life. He doesn’t like reminders about the dregs of the world, despite our continued involvements in its many factors. But such is human nature.” He took his seat and waved over a waiter who instantly jumped to his side.

  “We’ll have a round of City Ales, third years I think." He asked. "Thank you, Bri."

  The waiter called Bri, nodded. “Very good choice, Master Glass. Four third-year Ales, at once.” Bri scurried away.

  As soon as he left, a waitress appeared with a wooden platter of sliced sourdough bread, olive oil, and vinegar, and a silver bowl of pitted olives.

  “Thank you, Angela,” Vanto took the food in hand. “A little appetiser to ease your nerves.” Vanto smiled to the group as he popped an olive between his teeth.

  Torrance gave the group a trusting nod, and they began eating. Soon the ales came, served in half-pint silver flagons.

  “You lot seem to enjoy silver,” Boras said as they drank their fill. “Looks like a theme.”

  Vanto nodded with a laugh. “Yes. The Boss prefers silver to gold. There is a grace to the colour that outshines gold with its obnoxious veneer. I personally prefer copper, but I’m not the boss, am I?”

  “Fair enough,” Boras leant back in his chair and surveyed the people in The Den. While he did that, Arcos took over the conversation.

  “When do we meet him then?” He asked with an edge to his voice.

  “In due time,” Vanto reassured. “He is a careful man. He likes to know that the people who come to him personally are not the types that would try to kill him immediately.”

  “Well, we aren’t that type of people,” Arcos replied.

  “I can only hope,” Vanto glanced around him before turning his eyes to the group. “We’ve had a fair share of interlopers, you see. Spies looking to find out our plans for expansion and whatnot.”

  “Barons?” Boras leant forward.

  “Sometimes,” Vanto plucked up an olive and crushed it between his molars. “But mainly the other gangs are our primary thorns to contend with. Especially the Docking Fellows. But to be plain, no one likes a successful man. Especially a man like the Boss.”

  “Huh,” Arcos broke some bread and dipped it in the vinegar oil. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Vanto asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “If you need help, why not ask?”

  Vanto rested his elbow on the table and balanced his chin on his wrist. “My, my… Bold assumption to make, young man.”

  “Just calling out as I see it.”

  Before Vanto could respond, the waiter Bri, whom Vanto had ordered the ales from, returned. But not with ales in hand. Bri bent to Vanto’s ear and whispered quickly. Vanto slowly nodded as he ate. “I see,” he said. “Of course. We’ll be right up.”

  Vanto turned to the group with a grin. “He’d like to see you right now.”

  Boras leant back, confused. “What? How would he know we’re even here? We’ve been talking with just you since we got here.”

  Vanto pointed up behind Boras and Arcos, towards the far end of the Den.

  Turning, the group could see a sliver-embossed mahogany balcony hanging high over the back wall and stretching the majority of the wall’s width, with a row of balcony windows bordering its length. Directly in the middle of the windows and the balcony was a green-painted door with a silver door handle. And standing in the opening of this door was a figure half bathed in shadow. Only a black-gloved hand leaning on the balcony and the flicker of a lengthy cigarillo on a silver cigarette holder were the only proofs someone was there. The black glove lifted and flicked the four fingers and thumb inwards; a gesture to come in.

  “Was he watching us the entire time?” Reeva asked as they all rose from their chairs.

  “Maybe.” Arcos said, his breath tense.

  “Could someone remind me,” Boras muttered as they began to follow Vanto through the Den, “why the hells we left our weapons behind?”

  “Easy now, lads.” Torrance advised as he brought up the rear. “He’s not the only one watching. Look to the bar.”

  Boras subtly turned his head towards the bar and sure enough, there was a row of men and women not partaking of the drinks that were being plied at a steady rate. All of these had small glasses of water or wine, but no food. They were all leaning against the bar and scanning the guests of the Den. But now all their attention was fixed on the newest group, each of their eyes cold and steely.

  There was a younger woman with them, standing in the centre, staring hard as much as the others.

  To Boras, she looked quite out of place.

  She was tall, nearly reaching the height of the men and a head over the women. Her body frame was slight, but wiry. Boras had been around many women fighters at the Guild and Silverstreak to see the difference between indolence and trained. This one had a relaxed manner despite her focused eyes, which were a sharp jade green. She struck him as being maybe a year or so older than himself. She rested her elbows on the edge of the counter and was leaning back with an imperious expression. This was someone who looked acquainted with power all her life but was never resting on those laurels. Her thick blonde hair was tied back into a double braid that lay over her shoulder. She was dressed in a tight-fitting leather jerkin over a white blouse, working trousers that were tucked into black leather shoes. She wore a pair of black gloves that had small metal discs stitched and woven over the knuckles. She also wore a brown satin scarf across the lower half of her face, hiding her nose, cheeks, and mouth from sight.

  Boras didn’t see any weapons on her, but he had the distinct feeling that she was a weapon.

  She was also the only one holding an actual drink, a whiskey with ice with a steel straw propped against the ice. She swirled the drink in hand and never took her eyes off the group with Vanto. When she clocked Boras looking her way, she narrowed her eyes at him and turned her back on them.

  Boras raised his eyebrow. “Charming lady.” He grunted.