The air down at the east pier was a thick, soupy mixture of salt, rotting fish, and the industrial tang of tar and forge-smoke. The fog, a constant companion in this city, coiled in from the sea, muffling all sound and turning the distant glow of the dock lanterns into hazy, jaundiced stars. It was a perfect night for a heist.
I had returned to The Grey Anchor only briefly, long enough to inform a grim-faced Garrick and a terrified Rolan of Leo's test. Garrick had argued, his voice a low, furious rumble, insisting it was a trap, a fool's errand. "Let me go," he had insisted. "My strength against their numbers. We can take this 'Grime' and his entire operation apart."
"And show that I'm just a lord who hides behind his Master-level bodyguard?" I had fought back. "This isn't about the book, Garrick. It's about how much he respects you. "I have to pay that price myself." He had to back down, even though he didn't want to. His anger was clear in the room.
Now, by myself, I walked through the maze of crates and coiled ropes that were all over the pier, a shadow among shadows. The Tide-Eater warehouse stood at the end of the pier. It was a huge, windowless building made of dark, salt-stained wood. It was very quiet compared to the loud, lively taverns nearby. It felt like a sleeping animal.
With the rusty key Leo had given me, I opened a small side door, and the lock groaned in protest. The air inside was cool and still, and it smelled like damp wood and the faint, spicy smell of the contraband inside, which was probably rare spices from the Southern Isles. The warehouse was a dark cave with huge stacks of crates that made it hard to find your way around in the narrow, cramped hallways.
I let the steady beat of the Two-Heart Cadence calm my racing heart. I pushed my Rhythmic Sense out, not as a big sphere, but as a series of sonar-like pulses that probed the area. I started to picture the area in my mind. I could feel the heavy, solid shapes of the stacks of crates, the empty space between them, and the guards' faint, rhythmic Aetheric signatures. There were six of them, all Adepts, walking around the first floor in a slow, predictable pattern. Two more were standing still on a high catwalk near the back, where I thought Grime's office was.
I began to move, my feet silent on the dusty floorboards. This was not a battle. It was a puzzle. My Path, born for the duel, had to adapt. I flowed through the maze, a ghost in the machine, my Sense my only guide. I felt a patrol approaching my corridor; I melted into the deep shadow between two towering stacks of crates, holding my breath, my own Aether pulled in tight, until he passed, his footsteps lazy and confident.
Grime's office was a small, crudely built room suspended from the high rafters, accessible only by a single, creaking metal staircase. The two guards on the catwalk stood at its base, their spears crossed, alert and watchful. A direct confrontation was out of the question.
I circled around, keeping to the deepest shadows, my eyes scanning for another way up. My Sense found it: a heavy loading chain, used for a block-and-tackle system, dangled from a beam just a few feet from the office's back wall, which I could feel was made of cheaper, thinner wood.
The ascent was a silent, muscle-burning ordeal. I climbed the thick, greasy chain hand over hand, my warrior's strength serving me well. From the beam, it was a short, precarious leap to the office roof. I landed with a bare whisper of sound.
The office was empty, the man himself likely counting his profits elsewhere. The strongbox was exactly where a man like Grime would put it: bolted to the floor in the corner, a heavy, iron-banded chest with a complex-looking lock.
My Rhythmic Infusion wasn't just a cannon. It was a key. I knelt, placing my fingers on the lock mechanism. I closed my eyes, focusing my intent, and released a series of tiny, incredibly precise infusion 'taps'. Not blasts of force, but sharp, resonant vibrations. PING. I felt a tumbler shift. PING. Another. It was like safecracking with a tuning fork. With a final, satisfying click, the lock sprang open.
I had the ledger. But as I slid it from the box, I felt a sudden, sharp spike in the Aether below. One of the guards, making his rounds, had noticed the faint scuff marks my boots had left in the thick dust near the base of the chain. He looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the faint disturbance on the office roof. A shout was already forming on his lips.
There was no time for stealth. I burst through the flimsy back wall of the office in a shower of splintered wood, landing hard on the catwalk. The two guards there spun around, their spears rising, shock on their faces. I didn't give them time to react. I flowed forward, my gauntleted hands a blur. A quick, disruptive tap to the shaft of one spear sent a jarring shock up the guard's arm, making him drop it. A fluid pivot and a palm strike to the chest of the other sent him stumbling back into the railing.
An alarm horn blared from the floor below, its sound a raw, ugly bellow in the enclosed space. The entire warehouse erupted in shouts.
I ran. I sprinted along the catwalk, the ledger tucked securely inside my tunic. I leaped the ten-foot gap to a nearby stack of crates, my Adept-level power giving my legs the necessary explosive force. From there, it was a controlled fall to a lower stack, and then to the floor.
The six guards from the ground floor were converging on my position, a wall of angry, determined steel. I had no time to fight my way through. I looked up. High above, a grimy, rope-and-pulley-operated loading door was set into the wall, used for hauling cargo from ships. It was my only way out.
I ran towards it, my boots pounding on the floorboards. As the guards closed in behind me, I did something desperate, something born of pure, battlefield improvisation. I spun, my hand slamming against the base of a towering, precariously balanced stack of heavy crates beside me. A full, powerful Rhythmic Infusion, the cannon I had been holding back, discharged with a resonant BOOM.
The stack of crates groaned, swayed, and then tipped over with the slow, inevitable majesty of a falling tree, crashing down directly in the path of the charging guards. The sound was a thunderous crash of splintering wood and shattering cargo. It wouldn't stop them for long, but it was the only head start I needed.
I scrambled up the fallen crates, reached the loading door, and threw the heavy bolt. I stepped out into the cool, foggy night air, twenty feet above the dark, swirling water of the harbor. Without a second's hesitation, I leaped. The cold shock of the water was a welcome, cleansing embrace.
I surfaced, gasping, and swam for the shadows beneath the pier. Behind me, the warehouse was a hive of angry, shouting men.
Later, soaked, shivering, but alive, I met Leo in the shadow of the same bell tower. I tossed the waterlogged, but still legible, ledger at his feet.
He looked from the ledger to my soaked, battered form, a single eyebrow raising in that familiar, skeptical arch. He knelt, picked up the book, and then, without even opening it, tossed it into a nearby brazier, where it was instantly consumed by the flames.
"The test wasn't about the information, kid," he rasped, a ghost of something that might have been respect in his ancient, weary eyes. "It was about seeing if you had the guts and the brains to get it. You do." He turned, ready to leave.
"So you'll help me?" I asked, my voice tight with exhaustion and hope.
"I said I'd help you hunt the ones using that mark," he corrected me, his voice a low growl. "And it looks like they're already hunting us." He nodded towards the distant sounds of the City Watch, their whistles growing closer, drawn by the commotion at the warehouse. "Let's go. The real work starts now."