My Power Costs Gold (And I Have Plenty!)

Rusthaven's Sump did not operate on trust; it ran on a complex system of favors, threats, and intermediaries. A figure like Whisper, a ghost who traded in secrets that could topple houses, wouldn't have a shingle hanging outside his door. To find him, Rhyse knew he couldn't just ask. He had to make an offering to the city's unseen network.

Guided by a fragment of information carefully unearthed from the tavern's subterranean whispers, Rhyse led Vance and the others towards a destination that belied the Sump's seedy reputation: a surprisingly reputable, well-lit cartographer's guild positioned precariously on the cusp between the chaotic, ramshackle sprawl of the Sump and the more refined, orderly thoroughfares of the Crown Tier.

The guild's unassuming façade, adorned with a discreet sign creaking in the gentle breeze, offered little indication of the intricate, painstaking artistry that lay within. As they stepped inside, the air enveloped them, heavy with the scent of expensive parchment, fixation chemicals, and the mellow, comforting aroma of old, dry wood, evoking the sense of a sanctum dedicated to the precise and beautiful craft of mapmaking.

An ancient man with milky-white, sightless eyes sat behind a polished counter, his long fingers tracing the intricate lines of a raised-ink map. He didn't look up as they entered.

"The Guild is closed to new commissions," the archivist stated, his voice a dry rustle of paper.

Rhyse stepped forward. "We are not here to commission a map," he said, his voice steady. "We wish to post a query of the highest discretion."

The archivist's fingers stilled. This was the correct phrase. "Such queries require a show of sincere intent. The archives do not waste time on frivolous pursuits. The fee is five hundred gold sovereigns. Non-refundable. Paid upfront."

Vance tensed beside Rhyse, the price absurd for a simple inquiry. But Rhyse didn't hesitate. He placed a heavy purse on the counter, the clink of gold echoing in the quiet shop. The blind man did not reach for it, but simply nodded, a flicker of something akin to approval on his thin lips.

"The Sump's Midnight Market," the archivist murmured. "When the third steam-whistle from the deep forges blows, a one-eyed goblin will be selling rusted machine parts near the central fountain. Buy the gear with the nine broken teeth. The price is whatever he asks. Do not haggle."

The cryptic instruction was clearly a test. Rhyse gave a nod of understanding, and they left the shop.

That night, under a sky choked with industrial haze that blotted out the stars, the Midnight Market was a squalid carnival of illicit trade. Rhyse, with Vance, Bellweather and Flint as his shadows, navigated the crowd. At the third piercing shriek of the steam-whistle, they found him: a hunched goblin with a greasy leather patch over one eye, presiding over a blanket of junk metal.

"You," the goblin rasped, pointing a grimy finger at Rhyse as he approached. "You want the nine-tooth. Good gear. Strong gear."

"How much?" Rhyse asked.

The goblin grinned, revealing a row of needle-sharp, blackened teeth. "For you? A thousand gold sovereigns."

Vance's hand instinctively went to his glaive. The price was beyond extortion; it was madness for a piece of rusted scrap. But Rhyse's expression remained calm. He produced another heavy purse and dropped it onto the goblin's blanket without a word.

Vance let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh as he watched Rhyse hand over the purse without hesitation, a mixture of exasperation and understanding on his face. It was clear that the young lord still had much to learn about the true value of gold sovereigns, particularly in a place like Rusthaven where a thousand gold sovereigns could buy more than just a simple gear - it could buy a small fortune's worth of influence, or at the very least, a well-equipped militia.

And yet, as he glanced at Rhyse's determined profile, Vance recalled the numerous instances where the young lord had used his wealth to help those in need, often quietly and without fanfare, a trait that gave Vance a measure of hope for his lord's future.

The goblin's grin vanished, replaced by a look of shock, then cunning respect. He snatched the purse and handed Rhyse the worthless gear. "Go to the end of this alley," he hissed, pointing. "Knock twice. Then once. Wait."

The trail led them to a non-descript iron door, seemingly no different from a hundred others. Rhyse knocked as instructed. A moment later, a small slot slid open, and a pair of eyes—cold and sharp—peered out before the slot slammed shut. The door creaked open.

The room beyond was not the filthy den Rhyse expected. It was a silent, meticulously organized library, the air clean and cool. Walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with ledgers, dossiers, and rolled maps, each labeled with a precise, elegant script. It was jarring contrast to the filth of Rusthaven. In the center of the room, behind a vast desk, sat a man in a simple, dark grey tunic with an adorned white mask. He seemed neither old nor young, with sharp and unnervingly still posture of someone who has mastered absolute patience. This was Whisper.

"You have paid the entry fee, 'Master Elian'," Whisper said, his voice smooth and devoid of inflection. He gestured to a chair. "A costly and inefficient process, but one that effectively filters out the rabble. What information is worth such an investment?"

"I need to know about a secure communication network used by the Valtari Syndicate," Rhyse stated plainly. "It's called 'Channel Krellian'."

Whisper's placid expression didn't change, but Rhyse caught the almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles around his eyes. "That is not a cheap secret. The Valtari value their privacy and guard it aggressively. My fee for such high-risk data is ten thousand gold sovereigns."

Rhyse didn't flinch. "The price is acceptable."

After all, it was a direct threat on his life.

"Is it?" Whisper leaned forward slightly, "Wealth is common. Access is not. Before we discuss my fee, you will answer a question for me. A demonstration of your own resources." He steepled his fingers. "Tell me this: what was the name of the flagship Duke Regulus Astraulf used for his clandestine voyage to the Rough Isles two summers ago? The official records list The Griffin's Pride. I know that to be a lie."

The question was a masterful trap. It was obscure, high-level intelligence that couldn't be found in any public record. An impossible ask.

For anyone else.

Rhyse met the broker's gaze, his own mind diving deep. System, access Synkar Archival Network. Cross-reference all known ship manifests and naval movements with Duke Regulus Astraulf's travel records for the past three years. Prioritize sealed intelligence and counter-espionage reports.

[Accessing Synkar Deep Archives... Query requires Tier 2 clearance... Clearance granted via Head of House Authority... Compiling Data...]

[Cost: 5,000 Gold Sovereigns.]

The information flowed into his mind, crisp and absolute.

"The Duke traveled aboard a vessel named Onondaga," Rhyse said, his voice perfectly even. "A Yurrorlig-built fast-trader, refitted for stealth and registered under the banner of a subsidiary mercantile charter owned by a branch of the Hawthorne family."

The silence in the library was absolute. Whisper's mask of calm finally cracked. He stared at Rhyse, not as a client, but as an anomaly. The information Rhyse had just provided was something he himself had spent months and a small fortune trying to confirm.

"Incredible," Whisper breathed, the word a genuine admission of shock. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze now holding a profound, calculating interest. "The Synkar information network is nothing short of legendary." He smiled, a true, cold smile this time. "The gold is no longer sufficient. I require a different price."

"Name it," Rhyse said.

Whisper said, his eyes glittering, "You will grant me unrestricted access, for one solar cycle, to the unredacted Synkar trade ledgers from the time of the Third Expansion."

It was an audacious request, asking for some of the most guarded economic secrets of the family. Not even Rhyse knew which information was there. It could even be damaging to the Synkar.

Rhyse hesitated. He didn't have enough time to filter the information, but couldn't lose Whisper's network, "Your terms are acceptable."

"You agree? Just like that? You don't even know what secrets your ancestors buried," Whisper said.

"The secrets of the dead are less pressing than the threats of the living. We have a deal."

"Excellent." Whisper was all business now. "Channel Krellian is not a magical frequency. It is a proprietary, encrypted ledger system used for logistics and shipping, owned by the staunchly neutral House Vancelette. The Valtari have compromised a single ledger clerk here in Rusthaven. They pass their messages disguised as shipping manifests. The confirmation signal for the 'Serpent's Eye' will be a falsified entry for a shipment of Krellian Blue Steel."

He pushed a small, featureless arcane crystal across the desk. "On there is the clerk's name, his schedule, and the specific ledger entry code you'll need to watch for. The only way to intercept or alter that signal is to gain access to the House Vancelette Sub-Ledger Terminal. It is located in their outpost, on the Crown Tier."

Rhyse took the crystal. He now had the key.

"One final piece of advice, Lord Synkar," Whisper added as Rhyse stood to leave. "The clerk is a coward, but the terminal is guarded by a retired Knight of the Silver Scale. He is incorruptible. A direct assault is a fool's errand."

Rhyse nodded, his mind already piecing together the next phase of his plan. He had the what, the where, and the who. Now, he just needed to solve the how.