The eastern pier looked different at night. Lanterns hung from iron hooks casting pools of yellow light across weathered wood. Banners in deep blue and silver fluttered against the dark. Tables lined the dock loaded with food that cost more than Pilt's first three years of trading combined. Crystal glasses caught the light and threw it back in fragments.
Pilt walked through it wearing a dead man's suit.
Lord Cassian Marlowe. Third son of some minor noble house from the southern territories. Recently arrived to inspect shipping investments. The real one had died three weeks ago. Cholera. Quick and undignified. Pilt had acquired the papers, the letters, the seal. Everything needed to be someone else for a night.
He tugged at his collar. The jacket pinched. Too tight across the shoulders. Too loose at the waist. But expensive fabric forgave a lot.
His walk was different tonight. Not the merchant's casual stride. Not the loanshark's prowl. Something else. Measured. Deliberate. He had practiced for three days while Mira watched from doorways.
"You lead with your chest," she had said. "Nobles lead with their chin. Like they are looking down at everyone."
He adjusted. Walked again.
"Better. Now slower. You have nowhere important to be. Everyone else should feel lucky you showed up."
He slowed. Walked again.
"There. That is it. Now stop looking like you are going to rob them."
"But I am going to rob them."
"Then stop looking like it."
Now he moved through the crowd with his chin up and his expression carefully blank. A servant passed with a tray of wine. Pilt took a glass without looking. The servant existed only as function. Not worth acknowledgment.
'Is this really how they see the world?' he wondered. 'People as furniture?'
He sipped. The wine tasted expensive. It should for what it cost.
He scanned the crowd. Nobles. Wealthy traders. A few faces he recognized from wanted posters. Everyone who was anyone in Port Vexis had gathered tonight. The relic auction had drawn them all.
His trait flickered at the edge of his awareness. He let it run. Saw the next thirty seconds play out in fragments. Conversations he would have. People he would meet. Paths branching and splitting like rivers.
He saw himself approach a man in dark blue. Saw himself smile. Saw the man respond with suspicion.
He chose a different path. Moved left instead of right.
'Thirty seconds. That is all I get. Thirty seconds to see what is coming and adjust. After that, I am as blind as anyone.'
A woman in green silk laughed somewhere behind him. Her voice carried across the dock like wind chimes. Lady Westmoor. Shipping magnate. Controlled half the eastern trade routes. Pilt filed the information away.
Then he saw him.
Voss.
The man stood near the center of the gathering. Tall and well dressed. Face like carved stone. He held a glass of wine but did not drink. Just held it. Around him, other nobles circled like moths around flame. Seeking favor. Seeking attention. Seeking anything that might improve their position.
Pilt felt something shift in his chest. A heat that had nothing to do with the summer night.
'Voss.'
The name alone made his jaw tight. This was the man who had coordinated with the cultists. The one who had burned the orphanage in the eastern slums. Eight people dead. Children among them. Their bodies pulled from ash three days later.
He forced the memory down. Buried it deep.
'Not now. Focus.'
A servant passed. Pilt took another glass. Did not drink.
He had come here with a plan. Poison the wine. Purple lilies. Slow acting. Enough to cause confusion but not death. When the chaos started, he would move. Rescue someone important. Gain favor. Get close to the relic.
If that failed, he would steal it.
Either way, he left with something.
He moved through the crowd. Smiled at faces he did not know. Nodded at conversations he did not join. His trait flickered constantly now, showing him fragments of futures. He adjusted his path accordingly.
A man stepped into his path. Middle aged. Expensive clothes. Face like unbaked bread.
"Lord Marlowe!" the man said. "I was hoping to meet you."
Pilt's trait showed him the next thirty seconds. Saw the man introduce himself. Saw the conversation about shipping. Saw himself responding with vague pleasantries. Saw the man lose interest after twenty seconds.
He smiled. "Baron Telford. A pleasure. I have heard excellent things about your ventures."
The man's face lit up. "You have? From whom?"
Pilt's trait branched. He saw three possible responses. Chose the one that ended the conversation fastest.
"Mutual acquaintances in the northern territories. They speak highly of you."
"How kind! Tell me, what brings you to Port Vexis?"
"Shipping investments. Diversifying the family portfolio."
"Wise. Very wise." The Baron leaned closer. Lowered his voice. "Though I must warn you, Port Vexis is not what it once was. Crime. Corruption. Cultists."
"Cultists?"
"Yes... though they are a group called the Congregation. They have been terrorizing the Port Vexis. Burning buildings. Killing people. The authorities are useless."
Pilt's hand tightened on his glass. "How unfortunate."
"Indeed. I would avoid the slums entirely. Nothing there but trouble." The Baron straightened. "But listen to me, discussing unpleasant things at a lovely gathering. We must speak more about those northern connections."
After a brief conversation, where he improvised lies and with his Latent Trait to see what would work and what would have not, Baron lost interest moved on. Found someone else to talk to.
Pilt exhaled slowly. His trait flickered again. Showed him Voss moving toward the head table. Showed an older man raising a glass for a toast.
He checked his pocket. The vial of purple lily extract was still there. Small. Easy to miss. Lethal if used wrong.
'Now or never.'
He moved toward the serving table. His trait showed him the path. Showed him reaching the wine. Showed him uncorking the vial. Showed him—
A hand closed on his arm.
"Lord Marlowe."
Pilt turned. A woman stood beside him. Mid-twenties. White hair. Blue eyes. Face that might have been pretty if not for the hardness around her mouth.
"I do not believe we have met," he said.
"We have not." Her voice was low. Careful. "But I know who you are. And I know you are not Lord Marlowe."
Pilt's trait flickered. Showed him futures where he denied it. Showed him futures where he ran. Showed him futures where he stayed and listened.
He stayed.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Someone who wants the same thing you do. The relic. But I am not here to steal it." She glanced toward Voss. "I am here to destroy it."
"Why?"
"Because that relic was taken from my people. Stolen during a raid. Twenty three dead. Children among them." Her eyes met his. Held them. "You know what that feels like. I can see it in you."
Pilt's jaw tightened. "You see a lot."
"I see a man who came here with poison in his pocket and revenge in his heart. I see someone who has lost as much as I have." She released his arm. "Help me destroy the relic. Not steal it. Not profit from it. Destroy it. And I will help you with whatever else you came here to do."
His trait showed him futures branching of to multiple outcomes in the next Thirty seconds. None of them were to his liking.
He a saw the another path. The one where he did this alone. The one where he succeeded and slipped away into the night.
That path ended with him empty handed. The relic still in Voss's control. The orphanage still unavenged.
He made his choice.
"What is your name?"
"Magistrate Corvin know... Lady Celeste. You can call me Celeste."
Pilt nodded. "The poison is in my pocket. Purple lilies. I need to get it into the wine."
"I can create a distraction. Five minutes. Maybe less."
"There should be a storage room a ware house.."
She pointed to a door across the gathering while smiling.
'Yuck.'
He already didn't like the way he carried herself.
"Though you'll have to fast, I won't guarantee the chaos will last more than 30 seconds..." She whispered, her eyes dropping to a menacing look.
He backed away, her perfume assaulted his nose and sanity.
"Thanks."
"That is all I need."
She moved away. Disappeared into the crowd.
Pilt continued toward the serving table. His trait showed him the path clear. He reached the wine. His hand moved to his pocket. The vial came out.
He uncorked it. Dumped the contents into the nearest decanter. Clear liquid dissolved into red without a trace.
Moments later, a scream tore through the gathering.
Celeste had been efficient. A woman in blue silk clutched her chest and collapsed. Her companion screamed again. People rushed toward her. Away from her. Panic spread like fire.
Pilt moved with it. Not toward the chaos. Toward the warehouse where the relic waited.
His trait showed him the way. Left at the table. Right at the stack of crates. Through the door.
The warehouse was dark. Three crates sat against the far wall. He crossed to them. Pripped the first lid open.
Empty.
Second crate. Empty.
Third crate. Empty.
'No.'
Footsteps behind him. He turned.
Voss stood in the doorway. A dozen guards behind him. Weapons drawn.
"You," Voss said. "I know you. You are the merchant. The one with the bounties."
Pilt did not deny it. There was no point.
"I came for the relic," he said. "Same as everyone else."
"The relic is gone. Stolen during the confusion." Voss's eyes narrowed. "Convenient, is it not? You poison the wine, create chaos, and the relic disappears."
"I did not take it."
"Then who did?"
Pilt thought of Celeste. The woman with white blue eyes and venomous demeanor. She had created the distraction. She could have taken the relic while everyone panicked. Or did she give him false directions.
But that wasn't right, the containers were here.
'Used me. She used me.'
"I do not know," he said. "But standing here arguing will not bring it back."
Voss stepped forward. His guards followed. "You will answer for this. You will tell me who you work for. You will tell me where the relic is."
Pilt's trait flickered. Showed him futures where he ran. Showed him futures where he fought. Showed him futures where he talked his way out.
None of them ended well.
He chose the only path left. The one that led to answers.
"I work for no one. I came here for the same reason everyone did. Profit." He met Voss's eyes. "But I also came for something else. Something personal."
"Oh?"
"The orphanage. Eastern slums. Eight people dead. Children." Pilt's voice stayed level. "You coordinated with the cultists. You gave the order."
Voss's expression did not change. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Liar."
The word hung between them.
Voss studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled. It was not a kind expression.
"You are interesting," he said. "Most people who come for me do not survive the first conversation."
"I am not most people."
"No. You are not." Voss gestured to the guards. They lowered their weapons slightly. "I am going to offer you something. A choice. Join us. Work for the Congregation. Help us with our goals and I will forget this little intrusion ever happened."
Pilt stared at him. The rage he had buried earlier rose again. Hot and sharp.
"You burned children," he said. "You killed them in their beds. You expect me to work for you?"
"I expect you to be practical." Voss stepped closer. "The people in the slums are nothing. Less than nothing. They contribute nothing to society. Their deaths are meaningless in the grand scheme."
Pilt's vision narrowed. The world contracted to the space between them. To Voss's face. To the words still hanging in the air.
He saw futures branching. Saw himself attacking. Saw himself dying. Saw himself walking away.
None of them mattered. Only one thing mattered.
"What are you?" Voss asked. "A merchant? A thief? A vigilante?"
Pilt answered.
"I am a debt collector."
He moved.
His trait showed him the path. Every guard's reaction. Every weapon's trajectory. Every possible outcome in the next thirty seconds.
He used them all.
The first guard fell before he reached the ground. The second crumpled. The third raised his weapon but Pilt was already past him.
Voss's eyes widened. His hand reached for his belt.
Pilt's fist connected with his jaw. Voss stumbled back. Hit the wall. Slid down.
Pilt was on him. His hands found Voss's throat. Squeezed.
"You killed eight people," he said. "You burned them alive. You laughed about it."
Voss's face purpled. His hands clawed at Pilt's wrists.
"Where is the relic?" Pilt demanded.
"I... do not... know..."
"Who took it?"
"I do not... know..."
Pilt saw the truth in his eyes. Voss really did not know.
He released his grip. Voss gasped. Coughed. Sucked in air.
Pilt stood. Looked down at him.
"This is not over," he said. "I will find the relic. I will find whoever took it. And then I will come back for you."
"And trust me when I say this, when I come back—I will come back for everything."
"Mark my words."
He turned.
Guards shouted behind him. Feet pounded the floor. He reached the door. Burst through.
Outside, chaos still reigned. People ran in every direction. Fires had started somewhere. Smoke rose against the night sky.
Pilt disappeared into it.