A pity, then, that the potion showed no sign of digesting or even loosening. Roleplay was clearly not as simple as it looked.
He watched the rat-baiting for twenty minutes before it struck him that he was not only wasting time, but actively squandering it — so he stayed for a few more minutes before taking a seat at the bar, ordering a steak, and putting the Broker's keen perception to work on the other patrons.
His spiritual instinct began to pulse with activity at once.
In the packed and raucous pub, almost every single person was in a state of some kind of need — some urgent, some simmering, some barely a whisper. No surprise there. Human beings are, at heart, a bundle of wants. No one is ever entirely without need.
But the vast majority of those needs weren't a good fit for Broker roleplay. Like finding a loan shark for a mark earlier — not that it was necessarily useless for digestion, but the return on effort would be poor. A great deal of work for very little progress.
If that was the case, then finding the right targets would be its own challenge.
Then Vincent recalled the second half of the Broker ability description: "…especially the willingness and the needs that touch upon grey areas."
"Grey areas" — the space between black and white. Between legal and illegal, moral and immoral. In plain terms: more often than not, it meant something that was one or both.
Hmm?
But what I did for that middle-aged man was illegal and immoral, wasn't it? Does that mean I didn't truly "resolve" his need?
He finished lunch, tipped his head back, and took several long gulps from his tankard of beer — then wiped his mouth and exhaled with the deeply satisfied look of a man who'd earned it. This South Welsh ale the barman had recommended so enthusiastically really was something special.
He set the tankard down with a thunk, and found the barman staring at him.
Right. He was a woman right now. That had been a rather unladylike display.
Not exactly my finest moment. I am still new to this.
Though it did serve as a reminder: even away from Vivienne, he should make some effort to moderate his behaviour — not because a woman couldn't be brash, but the same gesture simply read differently depending on who was doing it.
Man's soul, woman's body. If any Pathway were tailor-made for him, it was probably the Wizard.
He allowed himself a self-deprecating smile and swept his gaze back across the pub — and then, in a corner that no one was paying any attention to, he spotted a man in a long black robe with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, his face lost in shadow.
In an instant, the spiritual instinct that came with the Broker Sequence lit up with a single, electric message: resolving this person's need would result in a massive acceleration of potion digestion.
Vincent's eyes sharpened. Finally, a real job.
Of course. If you want to play a Broker properly, you belong somewhere like this — where all sorts rub shoulders.
"Another South Welsh ale."
Pint in hand, he crossed the pub quickly. When he was two or three metres away, the figure suddenly lifted his head to reveal a face of pale, almost unearthly beauty — so refined that, if not for the visible line of his throat, one might have mistaken him for a woman.
"Friend — can I buy you a drink?"
The man in black did not touch the glass pushed toward him. He simply looked at Vincent with a steady, unreadable gaze. "Do you know me?"
"I do now."
Vincent sat down across from him and flashed his most disarming smile. "Allow me to introduce myself — I'm a Broker. My business is serving as a middleman: making connections, smoothing the way for deals, solving problems that need solving. Whether someone needs lodgings, employment, staff, or something rather more particular — I find them the right person. No matter what it is."
He let a beat of silence pass. "Might I ask — do you have any such needs?"
"Oh?"
Something like amusement entered the man's gaze. He said, with cool precision, "What you mean, then, is that you cannot solve problems directly."
"That's right."
Vincent gave a slight shrug. "I'm just a Broker, after all."
He was barely two days into roleplaying the Broker, but he'd already established his first rule: a Broker must not solve problems directly. His role was to connect — to carry the problem from one hand to another.
Much like the scales in that mysterious room — for the balance to shift in his favour, he had to facilitate the exchange between others. Stepping in and solving things himself would tip nothing.
The man in black extended a long, pale finger and lifted the pint to his lips. His eyes never left Vincent for a moment — the unblinking focus of a serpent.
After a considerable pause, he set it down and said slowly, "As it happens… I do have a need."
"Nothing dangerous, mind you. I have a company that has been desperately short-staffed for a very long time, and no matter what I do, I can't seem to recruit. Could you help me with that?"
Just recruitment?
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Is the pay too poor?"
"Certainly not. Even entry-level staff start at no less than five pounds a week. Prove their worth, and the pay can rise by multiples."
"The requirements too strict, then?"
"Not at all. There are no requirements for ordinary employees."
"The work too dangerous?"
"Occasionally."
"What does the work involve, specifically?"
"Day to day — running errands across Backlund. Completing tasks I assign. Sometimes serving as an attendant."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Vincent folded his arms and thought for a moment. "How many people do you need?"
The man's lips curved into something that might have been called a beautiful smile. "As many as possible. Enough to expand the company to two or three times its current size. Name your price, if you can deliver."
Vincent knew, of course, that the man wasn't telling the full truth. But this was his first serious attempt at active roleplay, and he wanted to see how far it went. He pushed further: "Could you tell me a bit about this company of yours?"
Something ignited in the back of those pale, elegant eyes — a sudden, fierce heat. "Have you ever heard… of the True Creator?"
"…???"
Vincent blinked. I asked about your company. Why are we suddenly talking theology?
Wait.
The True Creator. Why does that name feel so familiar?
Oh, bloody hell. The True Creator!
Memories of the deity cascaded into place: so this man in black was a follower of the True Creator? And his "company" was the Aurora Order — a genuine terrorist organisation? The "recruitment" was actually finding converts for a mad god?
No wonder resolving his needs would accelerate the potion so dramatically. This was finding worshippers for a Beyonder deity.
Vincent looked baffled and shook his head. "Can't say I have. Why do you ask?"
The man in black returned to his habitual coolness. Those serpentine eyes held Vincent's for a long, measuring moment — and then, in a voice low enough only for Vincent to hear, he said: "Hmph. For someone who walked over here uninvited, I should by rights have brought you in. Pity… you're too plain."
"…???"
He rose, swept his black robes around him, and melted into the crowd like a shadow, leaving Vincent sitting there with an entirely blank expression.
"I'm sorry — you're running a terrorist organisation. Why does anyone's face matter? You're planning atrocities, not a beauty pageant."
It had actually been a genuine question nagging at him ever since he'd read the novel. Why was the Aurora Order so obsessed with the looks of its members?
In theory, the Aurora Order's doctrines traced back to the True Creator. And the True Creator was, by any measure, absolutely unhinged. So how had a lunatic deity ended up as the world's most devoted judge of appearances?
To be continued…