The walk back to House Argent wasn't a retreat; it was a recon mission.
I kept my head down, my grey cloak pulled tight against the draughty corridors, but my eyes were scanning every face. I wasn't looking for friends. I was looking for armbands.
I saw them everywhere.
Near the central fountain, two burly seniors wearing the Stone-hollow arm bands were leaning against a pillar, watching the first-years scurry by. They weren't studying. They were hunting.
'They have established a perimeter,' Ronan noted, his mental voice cold and tactical. 'They are choking off the main trade routes. If we send a Jester out now, he won't make it ten feet.'
'Gamma wasn't captured,' I replied internally. I had severed the mana tether the moment I left the classroom to save the energy. 'But the business is dead in the water. We can't operate in a siege.'
I pushed open the heavy oak door of House Argent. The common room was loud, smelling of wet wool and woodsmoke, but the noise died down the moment I stepped inside. People looked at me. They saw the expression on my face—a look that promised expensive property damage—and gave me a wide berth.
I walked straight to our corner table.
The Slag Squad was already there. Kael was carving a wooden duck with a knife big enough to dress a deer. Grace was tinkering with a brass gyroscope, her fingers stained with oil. Finn was trying, and failing, to balance a spoon on his nose.
"Meeting," I said, dropping my bag on the table. "Now."
Finn's spoon clattered onto the wood. "You look like you want to kill someone. Did Vex give you detention again?"
"Worse," I said, dragging a chair over with a scrape. "We're shut down."
Grace looked up, snapping her magnifying goggles onto her forehead. "What do you mean?"
I looked at them. These were my friends. Or as close as I had allowed anyone to get in a very long time. I owed them the truth, but I couldn't give them the weapon that would kill them.
"Listen to me," I said, leaning in, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the tavern noise. "The Jesters are mine. They answer to me. That is all you need to know."
"But how?" Finn pressed, eyes wide. "Is it an Art? A spell?"
"Finn, stop," I cut him off, my tone hard. "This isn't a trade secret. It's a blast radius."
I looked at Grace, then Kael. "The method I use... the Inquisition considers it a heresy." I bent the truth a bit, but I couldn't really explain the actual reason they were after me. "If I explain it to you, and they catch you, they won't just interrogate you. They will unbind you. They will hollow you out just for knowing the mechanics."
Finn paled, shrinking back in his seat.
"I am keeping this in a black box," I said firmly. "Not to protect me. To protect you. If anyone asks, you don't know who is under the masks because I never told you. You aren't accomplices; you're just employees. Plausible deniability is the only shield I can give you."
Grace stared at me for a long moment, her sharp eyes searching mine. She saw the fear there—not for me, but for them. She nodded slowly.
"Black box," Grace agreed. "We don't look inside."
"Good," I exhaled. "Now, to the problem. Some Stone-hollow seniors are taking out the Jesters."
"It's the Iron-Steam Guild. They run that god awful laundry service everyone without gold to throw around still has to use," Grace muttered. "They must be tired of losing market share."
"Exactly." I pointed at Grace. "They aren't just trying to run me off. They're trying to unmask the Jesters. If they find a way to unmask my Jesters, the game is over."
Finn swallowed hard. "The Iron-Steam Guild? Murphy, they're majority Earth Mages. They build walls, literal and metaphorical. I mean... we would gladly help, you know we have your back, but what can we actually do?"
"Great question, Finn. Aside from the fact that I need the income every week or I get expelled, the Jesters have been the main and only sponsor for House Argent. Let me put it this way: all the upgrades happening around here? The improvement in food quality, the new kitchen equipment, and the comfortable couches? Every new luxury that has magically appeared in the dorms over the last two weeks... all sponsored by the Jesters."
I looked around the table. "I'm not asking for your muscle or magic. I need ideas. If you want the luxuries to keep coming, I need good ones."
I sat back. "We have two weeks before I miss a debt payment and get expelled. As I see it, we have three options. Option one: We fold. We go back to being broke, and I scramble for a new hustle."
"I like eating good food," Kael grunted. "Option one is bad."
"Option two," I continued. "We fight. We go out there and break their legs."
Kael started to grin, cracking his knuckles, but then he paused, his demeanour deflating.
"Bad idea," Grace cut in. "They outnumber us ten to one. And they have faculty support because they maintain the heating grid. If we start a war, we get expelled. They get a commendation."
"Because of my Art, their numbers mean nothing," I said quietly. "But if I start using that Art, I attract the Inquisition. Sending twelve Jesters with clubs to intimidate them could work, but Grace is right. We risk pissing off the faculty. If the teachers get involved, we are finished."
"Which leaves Option three," I said.
"We pay them?" Finn guessed, looking hopeful. "A protection tax? Thirty per cent?"
"That's the obvious move, but it won't work," I said. "You don't pay bullies, Finn. It just teaches them that we're wallets with legs."
I stared into the hearth, watching the fire consume a log. "I need something else."
"I have an idea," Grace said slowly. "But you're not going to like it."
"Hit me with it."
"Before I give you my stroke of genius, I need a promise," Grace added, a smug smirk touching her lips. "From now on, the Squad gets free laundry service. For life."
"Deal."
'It was an easy decision,' I told Ronan. 'I need to give them a vested interest in keeping the Jesters a secret.'
Ronan projected the mental equivalent of a facepalm—a vivid image of him burying his face in his hands—but remained silent.
Grace blinked, taken aback. She hadn't expected me to agree so easily. "Er... right. Well, okay then." She cleared her throat. "My idea is simple: Bring in Henry Black."
Finn gasped. "The Loan Shark?! Grace, why would you stick your head back in the lion's mouth?"
"Because Henry hates losing money," she reasoned. "And right now, the Jesters are a gold mine. Iron-Steam is shutting down that mine."
"You want me to sell equity," I realised, looking at her with new respect.
'Grace is a lot smarter than we gave her credit for,' I admitted to Ronan.
"Better the devil you know than the demon you don't," she said.
"I go in and offer him a partnership," I said aloud, following Grace's logic. "I'll give him ten per cent of the gross profits. In exchange, the Jesters become a subsidiary of the Black Syndicate."
Finn's eyes widened. "You're... franchising with the Mob."
"We would be buying brand protection," I corrected. "Iron-Steam isn't scared of us. But they might be terrified of Henry Black. If they touch a Jester, they aren't bullying a First Year anymore. They're stealing from the Shark."
I stood up and walked toward the door.
"Where are you going now?" Finn called out.
"To the Bell Tower," I said, checking the dagger at my belt. "I'm going to make the Iron-Steam Guild someone else's problem."
The Old Bell Tower was smoky, loud, and smelled of bad decisions. It was perfect.
I walked past the low-stakes tables where desperate students were gambling away their textbooks and headed straight for the VIP section.
Henry Black was sitting on his usual throne—a high-backed velvet chair that looked like it had been stolen from a cathedral. He was shuffling a deck of cards with one hand, looking bored. The spectral figure of Knuckles loomed in the shadows behind him, a silent threat made of mana and malice.
Henry looked up as I approached. He smiled. It was the smile of a crocodile seeing a wildebeest return to the water.
"Castian," Henry purred. "Back so soon? Did you run out of family heirlooms to pawn?"
"I'm not here to borrow, Henry," I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down uninvited. "I'm here to sell."
Henry stopped shuffling. He placed the deck on the table with a crisp snap. "I'm listening."
"You know the Jesters," I said. It wasn't a question. Henry knew everything that moved coin in this school.
"The laundry service," Henry nodded. "Cute operation. High volume. Surprisingly professional for a startup."
"It's mine," I said.
Henry didn't look surprised. "I figured. You paid your debt too fast for a scholarship kid. So?"
"So, the Iron-Steam Guild is shutting me down," I said flatly. "They're intercepting my runners. They're bad for business. And if they're bad for my business..."
I leaned in. "...they're bad for yours."
Henry raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"
"I'm offering you ten per cent," I said. "Of everything. The Jesters become a protected asset of the House. You don't have to lift a finger. You don't have to wash a single sock. You just have to let it be known that the clowns belong to you."
Henry stared at me. He did the mental maths in a second. The Jesters were pulling in hundreds of gold crowns a month. Ten per cent was free money.
"And Iron-Steam?" Henry asked.
"You tell them to back off," I said. "You tell them that every time they touch a Jester, they owe you a fine. They won't fight you, Henry. They know better."
Henry tapped his finger on the deck of cards. He looked at Knuckles. Then he looked back at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"It's a pretty pitch," Henry admitted. "But there is a flaw. You say ten per cent. How do I know it's ten per cent? You run the books. You could tell me you made fifty gold when you really made a hundred. I don't partner with liars, Castian."
I stayed silent. It was a fair point considering he didn't even know my real name. In the criminal underworld, trust wasn't given; it was audited. Usually by a man with a large stick.
"I could send an accountant," Henry suggested, his eyes glinting. "Someone to sit in your headquarters, count the bags, count the coin. Ensure the House gets its tithe."
My blood ran cold. My 'headquarters' were our dorms. My 'staff' were clones. If Henry sent a mundane bookkeeper, they wouldn't just figure out I'm using clones; they'd find out about the inventory too. That was a risk I wasn't willing to take.
"That's not possible," I said, keeping my voice steady. "The operation relies on proprietary methods. Trade secrets. I can't have outsiders looking under the hood."
Henry sighed, a sound of genuine disappointment. He picked up his deck and riffled the cards—thwip-thwip-thwip.
"Then we have no deal, Castian. I like you. You've got gumption. But without transparency, you're just a liability waiting to happen. If I can't verify the books, I can't protect the business."
"You'd be turning down free gold," I pressed, though I knew the momentum was gone.
"I'm turning down a blind gamble," Henry corrected. "The House always wins because the House knows the odds. You're asking me to bet on a hand I can't see."
He flicked a wrist, tossing a single card face up on the table. The Joker.
"Come back when you're ready to open the books. Until then, handle your own bullies."
I stared at the card for a second, my mind racing for a workaround, a loophole, a clever lie. But there was none. To get Henry's protection, I needed to expose the Jesters. If I exposed the Jesters, I would lose my life. It was a zero-sum game.
"Understood," I said, standing up.
I walked out of the Bell Tower, the heavy toll of the bell vibrating in the stones beneath my feet. I had played my ace, and it hadn't been enough.
The walk back to House Argent was long and bitter. The wind bit through my cloak, a fitting accompaniment to my mood. When I pushed open the door to the common room, the warmth hit me, but it didn't thaw the knot in my stomach.
The Slag Squad looked up instantly. Finn was halfway out of his chair. Kael had stopped carving. Grace just watched my face, her expression tightening as she read the answer in my eyes.
I collapsed into my chair and rubbed my temples. "It's a no-go."
"He said no?" Finn squeaked. "To free money?"
"He wanted an audit," I said wearily. "He wanted to send a man inside to count the coin and the staff. You know I can't allow that."
Grace nodded grimly. "The Black Box."
"Exactly. If he looks inside, we're dead. If he doesn't look, he won't back us. We're at a stalemate."
"So, we're back to option two?" Kael asked, cracking his knuckles again. "Breaking legs?"
"No," I said, staring at the wood grain of the table. "We can't win a war of attrition against the Iron-Steam Guild. They have the numbers, the territory, and the faculty bias. We can't go through them."
I looked up, a new plan forming in the ashes of the old one. It was risky, expensive, and annoying. But it was the only path left.
"If we can't go through them," I said, "we go around them."
"How?" Finn asked. "They're blocking the corridors."
"We move the Jesters off-campus," I stated.
The table went silent.
"Off-campus?" Grace frowned. "Murphy, the logistics..."
"Are a nightmare, I know," I interrupted. "But listen. The Iron-Steam bullies can stop a first-year student carrying a laundry bag. Do you know who they can't stop? The Imperial Post."
Finn's mouth formed a perfect 'O'.
"We restructure," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "We hire a legitimate, licensed courier service to handle the pickups and drop-offs. They come to the dorms, collect the bags, and take them to a processing centre in the city. The Iron-Steam goons can't touch a royal courier without committing a felony against the Crown. It bypasses the blockade entirely."
"That will eat into the margins," Grace pointed out, her mind already running the numbers. "Couriers aren't cheap."
"Even if it cuts into the profit by fifty per cent, fifty per cent of something is better than one hundred per cent of nothing. It legitimises the front end of the business. We become untouchable. It also gives us the option to expand into the rest of the city and grow the business."
"But we need a place," Kael grunted. "Can't wash clothes in the city streets."
"Right," I nodded. "We need an off-site base. A warehouse, a cellar, something private where I can... set up the machinery."d
Grace bit her lip, tapping her brass goggles. She looked at me, then at the table, debating something internally.
"My family," she said quietly. "We own a tannery in the Lower District. It... it went under about five years ago when the synthetic leather imports started. The building is still there. It's rotting, it smells like old chemicals, and it's full of rats."
She looked up, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "It's perfect."
I felt a wave of relief so strong it almost made me dizzy. "Rent?"
"Dirt cheap," she said. "My father would be happy to see a copper piece come out of it."
"Done," I said.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the heavy leather-bound ledger I had started keeping. It contained the list of every client, the subscription tiers, the gold flow, and the debt schedule.
I slid it across the table to Grace.
She looked at the book, then at me. "Murphy?"
"I can handle the production," I said, meeting her gaze. "I can handle the... staff. But I can't run the logistics, the courier contracts, and the rental agreements. I need a manager. I need a partner."
Grace placed a hand on the ledger. It was heavy with responsibility.
"The deal is simple," I said. "Fifty gold crowns a week comes to me, off the top, to cover the debt. That keeps me from being expelled. Everything else? That's the operating budget. You pay the rent, you pay the couriers, and you finance a new artificer's workshop in the old armoury downstairs. You run point, Grace."
The hook was massive. A private workshop in the dorm was a dream come true for her, but it also served a tactical purpose; we needed a dedicated space to crack the rune syntax I was struggling with. Still, it was a staggering amount of trust. I was handing her the keys to my survival. If she messed up the books, or if she got too curious about the true nature of my 'staff'...
Grace didn't blink. She dragged the ledger toward her, flipping it open to the first page, and snatched a pencil from behind her ear.
"I'll contact the courier guild in the morning," she said, her voice shifting into a professional cadence. "Kael, you're with me on the clean-up crew for the tannery. Finn, you're on marketing—we need to tell the clients about the new 'Premium Imperial Delivery' service to justify the wait times."
She looked up at me and grinned. "Go study your spells, Murphy. We've got a business to run."