The smell changed the moment she crossed into the slums. That told her she'd entered a different environment, one that ran by its own rules.
Open braziers burned along the streets. Too many people occupied too little space, compressing heat and breath into the air. The result was thick and stale, the kind of atmosphere that had been used over and over without time to clear.
Buildings rose tight on both sides. The gaps between them were narrow, limiting airflow and light. Even at midday, the shadows stayed deep, reducing visibility.
She found the first man two streets in. He sat against a doorframe, legs stretched across the path, gaze fixed somewhere unfocused. She would have passed him. Nothing about his posture suggested worth her time.
Then she noticed his coat.
It was heavy wool. The stitching at the collar was precise, done by someone trained. The fabric was good despite the wear. That meant it had been expensive originally.
Now it was filthy, layered with weeks of neglect, the hem dark with street grime. Still, the underlying quality was clear. The coat didn't belong to a man in this condition.
That created a problem. Either he'd once had money, been close to it, or taken it from someone who did. Each possibility implied different risks. She needed to know which.
She stopped in front of him. "Are you looking for a position."
He tilted his head back. His eyes took a moment to focus, slow to land. "What kind of position," he said. The words lagged slightly, arriving a fraction late.
"Steady pay. At the citadel."
He considered that. "I worked at a citadel once," he said. "The people there were very serious." He studied her. "You're very serious. You've got that look."
"What look."
"The look of someone who already made a decision and is waiting for everything else to catch up." He moved against the doorframe. "I had that look once. It wears you down. I wouldn't recommend it." He gestured at the street. "Sit down. Take a break from it."
She didn't move. "The coat. Where did you get it."
He glanced down at it. His fingers touched the collar. "Gift," he said.
"From who."
He started to answer. Then he stopped. Something changed behind his eyes. His focus broke. His attention moved away from her, from the conversation, from the present. His gaze warped three feet to her left and stopped there.
"The wool is from the southern coast," he said, speaking to empty space. "They shear twice a year there. Did you know that. The grass grows differently."
That was a failure point. Whatever information he had, he couldn't remember it long enough to share.
She evaluated the cost of pushing further. Too high for uncertain gain.
She watched him a moment longer. The answer would remain unresolved. It was behind something she couldn't get past today.
"All right," she said.
"Come back if you change your mind about sitting down," he called as she stepped over his legs. "The offer stands."
She moved on.
She found another one near the south end of the slums. He crouched in front of a storage door hanging off its lower hinge. He used a mallet and a flat piece of iron to drive the old pin upward from below. The mallet struck the iron with a clean ring, each blow working it higher.
That approach took more effort, but given the angle it sat at, it was the right method.
Before she saw his face, she noted his balance. He leaned forward, balanced on the balls of his feet. He adjusted automatically as he worked. That kind of control came from training.
He heard her approach and looked up. Mid-twenties, approximately. His expression watchful.
He looked at her, then returned to the pin.
"Your door," she said.
"No." It rose another fraction. "The old lady inside can't manage it anymore."
She waited. If there was more context, he might provide it. He didn't.
"Are you working at the moment," she said.
"Some." He kept his eyes on the pin. "Why."
"I'm putting together a list of people for positions at the citadel. I came through here to find anyone with matching skills."
He stopped and looked at her directly, "Why come here for that."
She kept her voice flat. "The warehouse district is already tied up in other arrangements. People here aren't."
He matched her gaze, evaluating. Then he returned to the pin. She observed his hands. Calluses lined the edge of his right palm and along the outer knuckles of his left hand.
Weapon drills left that pattern. A healed split marked his right hand, recent enough to matter.
"What sort," he said.
"General to start. Some of it is physical."
"What kind of physical."
"Security. Message running. Anything required in a building being established from nothing." She watched for reaction. "I'm still determining specifics."
He didn't respond immediately. He freed the pin, pocketed it, and stood. He tested the door on its remaining hinge, adjusting the angle. Then he retrieved a new pin from a satchel and set it at the top.
"Who's setting it up," he said.
"The prince. He arrived recently."
He drove it down without speaking. She waited. His pattern was consistent. Process first, respond second.
"What does it pay," he said.
"I don't have the exact number. That's his decision." She kept her attention on him. "It's regular. Includes food. Payment goes directly through the office. No intermediaries."
He seated it and tested the door. It moved cleanly.
"I've got family," he said, checking the hinges again. "My mother and a younger sister." He pushed it shut and studied the hang. "I need to be back every night."
That defined his requirement clearly.
"The work is during the day," Aestrith said. "You'd return each night."
He turned and studied her fully for the first time. He took his time with it, reading distances, reading her. Taking stock of the unknowns. She let him.
"What's your name," he said.
"Aestrith."
He picked up his satchel. "Lewin." He ran a hand along the frame. "I'll think on it."
She continued through the slums for the rest of the afternoon. She approached a dozen more people. The responses varied. Some shut down immediately, closing before she could get a word in. Some talked, but provided nothing she could use.
Some met her criteria. She marked them.
As the light began to fade, she reviewed the page and counted.
A few names. Enough to keep the place running. Enough to assemble minimal security, assuming a good acceptance. Enough for a start. The long run would need more.
She folded the page into her coat and headed north through the residential district. The city had settled into its end-of-day state around her. Stalls closed. Braziers lit in doorways. Cooking smoke filled the gaps between buildings.
She kept a steady pace. No need to rush. She went back through the pieces of the day. The drunk man's coat and where it came from. Lewin's hands and what they suggested about his capabilities.
Godric's consistent caution and how it would affect decisions. She kept each piece without resolving it, long enough to know what mattered.
By the time she reached the gate, she had a working set of priorities. No one was there to block her as she entered the courtyard.
The coat stayed with her. A man whose mind had gone elsewhere.
She didn't know yet what that meant.