Chapter 103: The Method and the Madman
The "Shattered Ladle" was not what I expected.
Based on Erik's description of Corvus, I'd pictured a dark, silent den, maybe a basement gym smelling of sweat and old leather, or a secluded courtyard hidden behind high walls. A place for grim, secret training.
The Shattered Ladle was a tea shop. And not a grim one. Sunlight streamed through its large, lattice-work windows, illuminating floating dust motes and the steam rising from dozens of delicate porcelain cups. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, bergamot, and something floral I couldn't name. Gentle, tinkling music played from a small enchanted crystal on the counter. Patrons, mostly elderly women, a few studious-looking scribes, and a pair of gossiping tailors, sat at small round tables, speaking in hushed, polite tones.
I stood in the doorway, feeling like a bear that had accidentally wandered into a porcelain doll convention. My clean-but-plain tunic and trousers were suddenly the most threatening outfit in the room. Several of the elderly ladies looked up, their expressions a mix of curiosity and mild alarm.
Great. Perfect place for a master of a deadly 'method'.
Erik's map had been clear, though. This was the place. I scanned the room. In the very back, tucked into a corner where the sunlight didn't quite reach, was a single table. A figure sat there, mostly hidden by a large, potted fern.
I made my way through the shop, trying to move quietly, acutely aware of the clunk of my boots on the polished wooden floor. As I approached the corner, the details of the man came into view.
Corvus was… a collection of contradictions.
He was older, maybe in his late fifties or sixties, with a shock of unruly grey hair that stuck out in several directions as if he'd been electrocuted. He had a hawk-like nose and sharp, intelligent eyes that were currently narrowed in intense focus. He was wiry, not muscular, with long, slender fingers.
He was also, at this exact moment, engaged in what could only be described as a deeply perverted act of espionage.
He was holding a small, concave polished silver disc, like a shaving mirror at a precise angle beneath the table. The angle was calculated to reflect the view from under the table across the room, where a young woman in a flowing summer dress was sitting, her legs crossed. The morning sun through the window was evidently providing what Corvus, with the concentration of a master artisan, deemed "optimal illumination." His tongue was poked slightly out of the corner of his mouth in total absorption.
I stopped a few feet away, completely derailed. This was the master of redirection? The guru of flow? He looked like a dirty old man who'd failed at being a wizard.
I cleared my throat.
Corvus didn't jump. He didn't startle. His eyes simply flicked from the reflection in his disc to me, then back to the reflection, as if comparing two mildly interesting data points. He held up one long finger, wait.
After another three seconds, the young woman shifted, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. Corvus gave a tiny, satisfied nod, as if he'd just confirmed a complex theorem. Only then did he lower the disc, placing it carefully on the table, and give me his full attention.
"You're blocking my light," he said. His voice was a dry rasp, like pages rubbing together.
"I… what?"
"The sun," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the window behind me. "Angle's crucial. You're a large, inconvenient object. Sit. You're making the nice ladies nervous."
Dumbfounded, I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. Up close, I could see the sharpness in his eyes more clearly. They weren't lecherous; they were analytical. He'd been studying, not leering. It was somehow worse.
"Erik sent me," I said, keeping my voice low.
"I know," Corvus said, picking up his teacup. It was tiny in his large, knuckled hands. "You have the look."
"The look?"
"Of someone who's been hit in the head a lot and has recently decided this is a sub-optimal life strategy." He took a delicate sip. "Also, you walk like you're carrying invisible luggage. All tension, no flow. It's painful to watch. I was using my mirror to avoid having to see it."
I blinked. "You were using your mirror to look up a woman's dress."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Aesthetic appreciation of form and light is part of the method. The curve of a calf, the play of shadow on silk… it teaches you about lines of force, natural leverage, the poetry of unguarded moments. You wouldn't understand. You're still at the 'getting punched in the face' stage of education."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I had no comeback. He was right.
"Erik said you could teach me… the method," I said, stumbling over the phrase. "That you know about flow. Redirection."
Corvus set his cup down with a soft click. His sharp eyes roved over me, from my shoulders to my hands resting on the table. "Why? You have power. I can smell it on you. Like ozone after a lightning strike. Crude, but potent. Why bother with subtlety?"
"Because the last guy who tried to kill me didn't bother to hit me back," I said, the memory of Jax's unstoppable charge fresh in my mind. "He just let me break my hands on him. And the one who did kill my friend was so fast and precise I didn't see him move. My power is a hammer. I need to be a scalpel. Or at least learn how to swing the hammer without missing every time."
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze turning inward. "A hammer versus a mountain. A flyswatter against a hornet. Yes. I see the problem." He leaned forward suddenly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Can you pay?"
"I… yes. I have Pele."
"Good. Gold is acceptable. Also, I have a list." He produced a small, grimy scrap of parchment from a sleeve and slid it across the table. On it, in surprisingly elegant script, was written:
· 1. Two bottles of Silvershade Whiskey (aged 15 years, not the 12-year swill).
· 2. One pound of honey-glazed almonds from Marla's cart in the market square (she knows the mix).
· 3. A subscription to The Torak Tattler (the gossip rag, not the news sheet). Six months minimum.
· 4. A new polishing cloth for my observation disc (silk, fine weave).
· 5. Weekly reports on the comings and goings at the Velvet Slipper bathhouse (discreetly).
I stared at the list. "The bathhouse?"
"The human body in motion, unencumbered by armor or pretension, is the ultimate textbook," he said, as if explaining that the sky was blue. "Hydrodynamics, balance, skeletal alignment… it's all there. It's research. Now, do you accept the terms?"
I looked from the absurd list to his deadly serious face. This was either the greatest master of a forgotten art in the city, or a complete and utter lunatic. Given my current 24.5% survival projection, I couldn't afford to bet against either possibility.
"I accept," I said.
"Good." He snatched the list back. "First lesson. It's free. Consider it a sample." He pointed a bony finger at my chest. "Your center is a mess. It's like a squirrel having a panic attack in a bag. All that lightning-strike power, and it's rattling around in there with nowhere to go. You clench your stomach when you're tense. You hold your breath before you move. You are, in the parlance of the method, a 'squeaky gate'."
"How do I fix it?"
"You don't fix it," he scoffed. "You listen to it. That tension, that panic? That's a message. Your body knows it's about to do something stupid. Your job is to agree with it, then do something else." He picked up his teacup again. "Your assignment, before our first paid session, is to stand in a crowded place. A market. And just… stand. Don't brace. Don't prepare. Just be there. Let the crowd flow around you. Feel the push, the pull, the currents. Don't resist. Don't assist. Just… be the rock in the stream. Then, come back and tell me what the rock felt."
He took a final sip and stood up with a fluid, silent motion that belied his age. He tucked his observation disc into his robe. "The almonds are the most important. Marla's cart. Don't get the ones with the red spice, she's been cutting corners. I'll be here tomorrow at the same time. Don't be late. And for the gods' sake, try to flow a little on your way out. You're disturbing the peace."
And with that, he turned and walked away, not towards the door, but towards a back curtain I hadn't noticed. He slipped through it and was gone.
I sat there, surrounded by the gentle clink of teacups and the soft chatter of the tea shop, holding a mental list of whiskey, nuts, gossip, a silk cloth, and bathhouse surveillance. I had just hired a perverted, tea-drinking, mirror-wielding philosopher of motion as my martial arts instructor.
I stood up, trying to move without 'disturbing the peace.' It was impossible. I felt like a clumsy giant. As I walked out, I caught the eye of the young woman in the summer dress. She gave me a polite, slightly puzzled smile.
All I could think was: Corvus knows the exact play of light on the silk of that dress.
Somehow, that didn't comfort me. But for the first time since reading the System's mission, the 24.5% in the corner of my vision didn't feel like a death sentence. It felt like a math problem. And maybe, just maybe, the dirty old man in the tea shop held one of the variables.