The grey greatcoat was a heavy, scratchy blessing. It smelled of tobacco, ancient dust, and the damp wool of a man long since buried, but to Victor, it was a suit of armor. In the social hierarchy of Backlund, a coat was the dividing line between a man and a stray dog. As he stepped out of Mr. Egmont's clock shop into the swirling yellow smog of Cherwood, Victor felt the shift in how the world perceived him. He was no longer a "fell-dandy" in tattered silk; he was a silent, imposing shadow in a shroud of grey.
His task was simple, scout.
He didn't stand still. Standing still drew eyes. Instead, he moved with the steady, unhurried pace of a man with a destination. He leaned against a soot-blackened pillar near the apothecary, pulled out a small piece of newspaper, and pretended to read. His ears, sharpened by the Hunter potion, filtered out the clatter of horse-drawn carriages and the distant shouts of newsboys. He was listening for the "discordant notes."
Ten minutes in, he found one.
A man in a dark, nondescript cloak sat on a public bench fifty yards from Egmont's shop. He was reading a book, but he never turned the page. His eyes weren't on the paper; they were fixed on the reflection in the apothecary's window—a window that gave a perfect view of the clock shop's front door.
Target identified, Victor thought.
Victor didn't approach him. That would be a provocation. He needed to know if this was the law or a rival gang. He closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the scent carried by the damp wind. Beneath the smell of coal and horse manure, there was a faint, sharp tang—the same ozone smell he had noticed on Mr. Gable, the nervous clerk.
Nighthawks? No, they would be more discreet. This smells of a low-level informant. A scavenger, just like me.
Victor decided to test the "opportunity in the hardship." He walked toward a group of street urchins—the "mudlarks" of Cherwood—who were huddled around a small fire of scrap wood. They looked at Victor's grey coat with envy and suspicion.
"Five pence," Victor said, his voice a low, steady baritone that carried no warmth. He didn't have five pence, but he knew where Egmont hid the "emergency" tin in the cellar. "I need a distraction. That man on the bench. Spill a bucket of slop near his boots. Not on him—near him. Make it an accident."
The leader of the urchins, a girl with eyes far too old for her face, looked at him. "Why should we trust a dandy in a dead man's coat?"
"Because if you do it, I'll tell you which baker on this street leaves his back door unlocked between the hours of four and five," Victor countered. He had observed this pattern while polishing the shop's glass. It was a trade of information, the only currency he truly possessed.
The girl nodded. A minute later, a chaotic scramble of children occurred near the bench. A bucket of grey, foul-smelling laundry water "accidentally" tipped over, splashing the man's boots. The man jumped up, swearing, and for a split second, his cloak flared open.
Victor, watching from the shadows of a doorway, saw it. A brass badge pinned to the man's vest—the insignia of the Backlund Police Department's Special Intelligence Division.
The police. Not the Church, Victor noted, a wave of relief followed by a surge of caution washing over him. Egmont isn't just dealing in Beyonder materials; he's on the radar of the secular authorities. This changes the geometry of the hunt.
He retreated into the shop through the back alley, moving with a silence that surprised even himself. He found Egmont in the backroom, still hunched over a brass gear.
"The man in the cloak is a police informant," Victor said without preamble. "He's watching for the runner. If the package arrives tonight, you'll be in a cell at Newgate before the fog clears."
Egmont's hand slipped, the gear skittering across the table. He looked up, his face pale. "How can you be sure?"
"He has a department badge and he smells of the same ozone as Gable," Victor replied, leaning against the doorframe. "You've been careless, Mr. Egmont. You're using the same patterns every week. Even a blind man could track you."
"What do you want, boy?" Egmont growled, his fear turning into aggression. "More bread? More coal?"
"I want you to change the drop-point," Victor said. "There's a ruined warehouse near the canal—Warehouse 14. It's a death trap for anyone who doesn't know the floorboards, but it has three exits. Tell the runner to meet me there. I'll act as the intermediary. If the police follow, I'll lead them into the sludge. You stay clean. You stay in your shop."
Victor was negotiating for a role. He was moving from "scout" to "agent." It was a dangerous game—if he was caught, he had no one to bail him out. But, he realized that the only way to climb out of the mud was to make himself indispensable to those who lived just above it.
"Why should I trust you not to run with the package?" Egmont asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Because I have nowhere to run," Victor said, his blue eyes locking onto Egmont's with a cold, terrifying sincerity. "I am a man with a dead name and a ruined coat. If I betray you, I have no base. I have no food."
Egmont stared at him for a long time. The ticking of the clocks seemed to grow louder, marking the seconds of a life-or-death decision.
"Tonight at midnight," Egmont finally muttered. "The runner will be there. Don't make me regret this, Victor."
Victor nodded and climbed the stairs to his attic. He sat in the dark, the grey greatcoat wrapped around him. He felt the bronze medal in his pocket—it was still silent, but it felt heavier, as if it were acknowledging the weight of his choices.
He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't a hero. He was a Sequence 9 Hunter who had just negotiated a seat at the table of the underworld. He closed his eyes, his mind mapping every inch of Warehouse 14. He had four hours to prepare the "opening."