I went up-market, as much as you can in the Warrens anyway – at least the building wasn’t in imminent danger of collapse, even if it did seem held up mostly by soot and mould. It was the kind of place a man might hear rumours dripping from loosened lips of gang bosses and their lieutenants, boasts of murders and dodgy deals. In short, it was exactly where I might uncover information on the Skinner and Lynas’ murder. I walked through the door, past the cold eyes of gang enforcers on guard duty, the sort of men that wouldn’t balk at breaking bones and cutting up bodies before heading home to tell their daughter a gentle bedtime story.
One big brute covered in scars was overly twitchy. The scar tissue was surgically straight and smooth, his skin a little flushed, the muscles too defined and bulky; all classic signs of fleshcrafter modifications to heighten reactions and muscle growth. It was highly illegal, but some magi with the talent for healing would happily pervert their calling in the cause of extra gold, or to obtain fresh research materials. Usually his sort were built for cavern-fights, their owners pitting prize fighters against each other in underground rings. His body would burn itself up and he would die early, but until then he would be like a daemon in a scrap, and earn extra coin for it too. He had probably accrued a hefty debt to the wrong people, but I supposed it was better than a knife between the ribs or selling your organs for a fleshcrafter to implant into the diseased and unscrupulous rich.
The brute’s gimlet eyes lingered on my back as I descended to the card tables. A smile slipped onto my face. Oh, how I had missed the bluff and tumble of high-stakes gambling, the expectant thrill of my gold wagered on a single toss of the dice or flip of the last card, the sudden hush as one by one my opponents revealed their hands. Fleecing drunken farmers in the hinterlands lacked this dangerous lustre. If only I had the time to enjoy such frivolities.
I scoped out the smoky room, dimly lit by twinkling rush-lights on the tables and oil lanterns on the walls, taking in the padded booths at the back where purple-lipped khufali addicts reclined immersed in sweet smoke and vibrant dreams. Scantily clad men and women served drinks, occasionally slipping upstairs when they took a customer’s fancy and their coin. I didn’t dare use my magic here: with this much coin changing hands they would have a sniffer mingling. Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t open up my Gift in a more passive way, soaking in the atmosphere and any stray thoughts; here those thoughts were dark and perverse, reeking of fear, aggression and despair. It was maddening to have my Gift open but not draw in magic, akin to wafting slabs of sizzling bacon under the nose of a starving man and telling him not to chow down.
After earning some gold at dice I slipped into a booth and engaged an information broker for details on the Skinner murders, and for events that occurred around that date. He knew only two things more than I already uncovered: the first was that the murdered magus had been a white-robe. The revered members of the Halcyon Order were the only magi that normal folk had anything good to say about. Healing was a rare talent that I dearly wished I possessed, and I would have traded my cursed Gift for that in the blink of an eye. I’d seen far too many people die while I looked on helplessly. They were the closest thing to sacrosanct that Setharis had. The other was that somebody had torched an old temple in the Warrens that same night. In my mind I was plotting distances from there to Bootmaker’s Wynd, but the slums of Setharis stretched a good half-day’s walk and I was going to need Charra’s map. It might prove coincidental but I filed it away for investigation. On mentioning Bardok the Hock he proved a more bountiful source. That greedy old git was working with the Harbourmaster in charge of Pauper’s Docks, who was on the payroll of the alchemic syndicates. Which linked to imports, and to Lynas.
Once I was done with the information broker I picked a central table suitable for mental eavesdropping, tossed some coin in and eased myself down onto the bench opposite a heavily built older man wearing a flat cap – a dockhand judging by his rope-burned hands – with a clay pipe clamped between rotten brown teeth. He glanced at me and then went back to studying his cards and puffing on a pipe with the tarry reek of cheapest tabac. The dealer flipped two painted cards my way and then placed another three face-up on the table. I peeked at my hand, kept my face still at the glorious sight of two High House cards. So the dealer was going for the usual hustle of letting me win small, then upping the ante until I was overconfident and bet all my coin on a single round of cards. Then some accomplice would wipe me out with an amazing hand, with the help of some dodgy dealing of course. Naturally I had no qualms about cheating outrageously myself when the time came. I tapped my highest cards thoughtfully, letting the tiniest trickle – barely a sip – of magic seep into them with each tap, building my trickery up layer by layer, each use far too subtle to be noticed by any sniffer they could possibly afford.
Usually I wouldn’t resort to using my Gift for something so minor; it felt like cheating when I could win through skill and deception, but I didn’t have the time to fritter away. It was easy to bluff when you could read people’s expressions and body language as well as I could, no magic needed; all it took was a little attention to detail. Most people seemed to meander through life blindfolded when it came to the emotions of others. I couldn’t quite fathom that sort of ignorance, but then I was hardly normal.
I let the chatter of customers wash over me, immersing myself in the mood of the room, keeping ear and mind out for any interesting titbits to fill in gaps in my knowledge. The Skinner was a topic on many lips and stray thoughts, but I learned little but unsubstantiated rumour and conspiracy theories. A tension filled the air, so thick I could almost taste it. It was the sort of atmosphere that built up slowly, thickening until it eventually exploded in somebody’s face. It wasn’t just the Skinner; this was something that ran much deeper. Too many bad things in such a short time, too many people gone missing, and nobody knew who, which let suspicion bloat into a loathsome beast.
I won the first three rounds before the dockhand threw his cap in and admitted defeat. It was a shrewd man who knew when to quit. Three others took his place around the table, lured by the chance of winning a share of my growing stack of coin. They just made my winnings rack up all the quicker. The gambling den’s owners sent free drinks over, but that was fine with me, it’d take more than a little booze to throw me off my stride thanks to years of rigorous training in that respect. My winnings grew. You don’t win that much without drawing attention, and I could feel people’s eyes on me now, including one woman I suspected to be a sniffer from the distracted look as she walked past me, nose crinkling even though she wasn’t looking for a physical scent. I flipped a smoke between my lips and lit it from a rush-light. I’d have to be careful to time my cheating just right.
Focused on the game, studying the cards being dealt, I sensed a woman slip down beside me and noted a smooth dark thigh and the subtle, exotic scent she wore. I knew the type, the sort of pretty leech that attached themselves to winners and drained them dry. Her mind gave away nothing, no strong feelings or stray thoughts. In a place like this it was possible there wasn’t an alchemic-free thought in her sluggish mind, but it was surprising all the same.