The morning sun did little to warm the frozen mud of the Lower District.
Elias adjusted the strap of his satchel. It was empty save for the freshly sharpened quill and the small knife, but the weight of it felt familiar against his hip. He checked his reflection in the water bucket. He had shaved the patchy stubble with the knife, a risky operation with shaking hands that resulted in two small nicks on his jaw, and washed his face until the skin was raw.
He still looked gaunt. His eyes were sunken, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. But he was clean.
"Button your coat," Elias said.
Leo stood by the door, bundled in every scrap of cloth Elias could find. The boy looked like a walking pile of rags, but at least he wouldn't freeze.
"Where are we going?" Leo asked. His voice was small and muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face.
"To work," Elias replied.
He couldn't leave the boy here. If the Black Iron Gang decided to come back early to intimidate him, or if the cold seeped through the cracks in the walls, Leo would be defenseless.
Elias opened the door and held out his hand.
Leo hesitated. He looked at the hand, then at Elias's face. Slowly, he reached up and took it. His fingers were small and cold.
Elias squeezed gently, just once, to signal security. Then he led them out into the biting wind.
The Merchant District was a sensory assault. Even in winter, the streets were choked with carts hauling timber, coal, and salted fish. The smell of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air.
Elias moved with purpose. He knew where the scribe shops were. He knew where the merchants hired day laborers for inventory.
The first stop was Miller & Sons, a dry goods warehouse. Elias remembered the foreman, a man named Taggart.
He walked into the office, the warmth of the stove hitting him like a physical blow. Taggart was behind a desk, shouting at a clerk.
"Master Taggart," Elias said, his voice cutting through the noise.
Taggart looked up. His annoyance turned instantly to a sneer.
"Thorne," Taggart grunted. "I thought you were dead in a ditch."
"I am looking for work," Elias said, ignoring the insult. "I can audit your winter inventory. I know you're short-staffed during the solstice rush."
Taggart laughed, a harsh barking sound. He stood up and pointed a thick finger at the door.
"Get out."
"I am sober," Elias persisted, keeping his back straight. "My handwriting is still the best in the district."
"I don't care if you're sober enough to thread a needle," Taggart spat. "You're a gambler, Elias. You owe half the city. If I let you near my inventory, half of it will walk out the back door to pay your debts."
He leaned over the desk. "I don't hire thieves. Get out before I throw you out."
Elias stood still for a second. The accusation burned because it was logical. To them, he wasn't just a drunk. He was a financial liability. A leak.
He turned and walked out. Leo was waiting just outside the door, stomping his feet to stay warm. He looked up at Elias with wide eyes.
"No?" Leo asked.
"Not there," Elias said. "Come."
The second stop was a scrivener's shop. The owner didn't even let him speak. He simply slammed the shutters closed when he saw Elias approaching.
The third stop was a timber yard. The owner, a man Elias had once helped with a contract years ago, looked at him with pity.
"I can't, Elias," the man said quietly, glancing at his own coin box. "I can't take the risk. You understand."
Elias understood perfectly. Trust was a currency, and the original owner of this body had spent it all.
By noon, they had walked the length of the district. Elias's legs were trembling from exertion. The hunger was back, gnawing at his ribs.
Leo was lagging behind. The boy wasn't complaining, but his steps were heavy. He was shivering.
Elias stopped. He checked his pocket. He had three copper coins left, the absolute last of the household funds.
He looked across the street. A street vendor was selling steamed buns and roasted nuts. The smell of honey and roasted hazelnuts drifted through the cold air.
Elias walked over to the stall.
"Two honey cakes," Elias said.
The vendor eyed his ragged clothes suspiciously. Elias placed two coppers on the counter. The vendor grunted and handed over two small, steaming pastries wrapped in a leaf.
Elias walked back to Leo. He knelt in the snow.
"Here," Elias said, unwrapping the leaf.
The steam rose up, smelling of sugar and fat. Leo's eyes went wide. Honey cakes were a festival treat, something for rich children.
"For me?" Leo whispered.
"Eat it while it's hot," Elias said.
Leo took the cake. He took a bite, and a look of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over his face. The sugar rush brought a little color back to his pale cheeks.
Elias took a bite of his own cake. It was cloyingly sweet, but the warmth was welcome. He watched the boy eat. The rejection of the morning stung less when he saw the boy licking honey off his fingers.
"Father," Leo said, his mouth full. "Are we going home?"
"Not yet," Elias said. He stood up, brushing crumbs from his coat. "We are going to the docks."
The docks were the heart of the city's trade, and also its chaos.
Elias walked toward the warehouses of the High Merchants. These were men who dealt in bulk. Spices from the south, steel from the north. They didn't care about local gossip as much as they cared about efficiency.
As they approached the main customs checkpoint, Elias saw a commotion.
A large carriage had stopped, blocking the flow of traffic. A man in a fur-lined coat named Master Vane, one of the city's wealthiest importers, was standing in the slush. He was shouting at a foreign captain.
The captain, a dark-skinned man from the Southern Isles, was shouting back in a heavily accented dialect while waving a piece of parchment.
"I will not pay!" Vane roared, his face turning red. "The contract said delivered! You dropped the crates on the wet pier! Half the silk is ruined!"
"Contract say 'Port Risk'!" the captain yelled back. "You sign! You pay!"
A crowd of porters and clerks stood around, useless. Vane's own scribe was frantically flipping through a dictionary, looking terrified.
Elias stopped. He listened.
The captain wasn't speaking standard Trade Tongue. He was speaking a coastal dialect of the South.
"Wait here," Elias told Leo, moving him to the shelter of a crate pile. "Do not move."
Elias walked into the center of the argument.
"Master Vane," Elias said. His voice was calm, projecting over the shouting.
Vane spun around. "Who in the blazes are you? Get out of the way!"
Elias ignored the dismissal. He looked at the foreign captain and spoke in the captain's own dialect.
"The dispute is regarding the Liability Clause, correct?" Elias asked fluently.
The captain blinked, surprised to hear his native tongue coming from a ragged northerner. "Yes! He refuses to honor the 'Free Alongside Ship' agreement!"
Elias turned to Vane. "Master Vane, your interpreter is wrong. The captain isn't claiming 'Port Risk'. He's claiming 'Free Alongside Ship'. That means his liability ended the moment the crane lifted the cargo over the rail."
Vane frowned, looking at his own terrified scribe. "Is that true?"
The scribe stammered. "I... the word looked like 'Port', sir... I wasn't sure..."
"However," Elias continued, turning back to the captain. "The standard Southern Maritime Law, Section 8, states that 'Free Alongside Ship' requires the cargo to be placed on a dry surface designated by the receiver. You dropped it in the slush."
The captain stiffened. "The pier was crowded."
"That is not the receiver's problem," Elias said, his voice hard. "You failed to secure a dry landing. By your own laws, the damage is on your head. You owe Master Vane a refund for the ruined silk, or we impound your ship for breach of protocol."
The captain glared at Elias. He looked at Vane, then at the ruined crates. He knew he had been caught on a technicality.
"Fine," the captain spat. "We deduct the water damage. But he pays the rest now."
Elias turned to Vane. "He accepts liability for the damage. He will deduct it from the final bill."
Vane let out a long breath, the tension draining from his shoulders. He looked at the shivering scribe beside him, then at Elias.
"You saved me two hundred gold coins," Vane muttered.
He reached into his purse and pulled out a single silver coin. He tossed it through the air.
"Catch," Vane said dismissively. "Go buy yourself a drink, scribe. You look like you need it."
Elias watched the silver coin spin in the air. It hit the mud with a wet plop.
In the original timeline, Elias would have dove for it. He would have snatched it up and kissed Vane's boots.
Elias did not move.
He looked at the coin in the mud, then up at Vane.
"I do not want your charity," Elias said clearly.
Vane raised an eyebrow. "It's a silver. That's a week's wages for a man like you. Pick it up."
"I am a Royal Scribe," Elias said. "I speak four languages. I know Maritime Law better than your current clerk. I just saved you a fortune."
He took a step forward.
"I don't want a tip, Master Vane. I want a job."
Vane stared at him. He recognized him now. The gaunt face, the shaking hands.
"I know you," Vane said, his voice cooling. "You're Thorne. The gambler."
Vane sneered. "You think I'd let a man with your debts near my ledgers? You'd cook the books before the ink was dry."
He pointed at the coin in the mud.
"Take the silver, Thorne. It's the only thing you're getting from me. I don't hire liabilities."
Elias stood in the cold wind. He felt the hunger in his stomach and the desperate need for that coin. But if he bent down now, if he picked it up, he was just a beggar.
He looked at Leo watching from behind the crate.
Elias stepped over the coin.
"Your warehouse," Elias said, pointing to the massive building behind Vane. "I saw the loading manifest yesterday. You have three ships incoming, and your inventory clerk is two weeks behind. I can see the pile of unfiled dockets from here."
Vane narrowed his eyes. "So?"
"Give me tonight," Elias said. "One night with your logs. If I don't find a discrepancy worth more than my yearly wage, you can have the guards throw me in a cell for trespassing."
Vane laughed. "You want to audit me? On a bet?"
"You're a merchant," Elias said. "You like bets. This one has no risk for you. Either I work for free and go to jail, or I save you money."
Vane looked at the ragged man standing tall in the snow. He looked at the useless scribe shivering beside him. He looked at the coin lying ignored in the mud.
Greed warred with caution in the merchant's eyes.
"One night," Vane said softly. "The guards watch you. You don't leave the room. If a single copper goes missing, I take your hands."
"Agreed," Elias said.
Vane turned and walked toward the warehouse. "Well? Come on then, gambler. Let's see if you're as good as your mouth."
Elias turned back to the crates. He held out his hand to Leo.
"Come, Leo," Elias said. "We have work to do."