NOVEL NEXT B3 - Lesson 19: "Chips Down..."
The tavern reeked of sweat, spilled ale, and desperation. Somewhere near the hearth, a bard plucked an out-of-tune lyre, his voice lost beneath the overlapping murmur of half a hundred conversations. Candles guttered in smoky lanterns, casting ragged shadows across the warped floorboards. Even at midday, it was dim inside the Ragpicker's Den — just one of Halirosa's many gutterside drinking holes, a common haunt of night laborers, adventurers, and those whose luck had run dry.
Hugo sat at a battered card table near the back, where the ceiling sagged and the air was thick with pipe smoke. The battered suit of armor he wore looked as if it had seen a hundred battles and lost half of them. Ant-like plates scuffed and dulled, joints dented, his gauntlets stained by the passage of too many hard nights. A faded blue sash, once vibrant, peeked from beneath his collar, now frayed at the edges. In the flickering light, the lines of his face looked carved from old wood. Deep-set eyes beneath heavy brows, a neat beard gone silver but for a single streak of black at the jaw. Every so often, he rolled his left shoulder, fingers flexing with a faint wince — as if the joint never quite healed right.
A battered pile of coins and chips glittered before him, the remains of a hard-fought night. Around the table, hard-eyed men and women nursed their drinks and watched with predator's patience, some hopeful, others merely looking for a distraction from the world outside. It was the kind of place where fortunes changed hands with the turn of a card and grudges were nursed in silence.
A final hand had built to a boiling point. The air around the table buzzed with tension as the dealer slid the last card across the felt, and all but Hugo and one other remained. The challenger — a burly man with pockmarked cheeks, and a broken nose, his arms marked with faded clan tattoos — met Hugo's gaze with a flat, toothy smile. His fingers drummed against his meager pile. The tavern seemed to lean in, the background clatter momentarily dulled.
The man's grin split wider. "You sure you want to go through with this, old-timer?" His accent was thick, the kind of growl born of low alleys and cold kitchens.
Hugo didn't answer, only met his stare, eyes hooded. The pile of coins between them felt as heavy as a ransom.
A small voice buzzed in his ear. "He's bluffing," Alpha said.
Hugo's gaze drifted past his opponent, lingering just long enough to see the faint glint of metal in the shadows where the [Wasp] drone clung to the wall behind the other man's shoulder. He allowed himself a tight, almost invisible nod. "Guess I'm feeling lucky," he said and swept his remaining chips into the pot. "Call."
A low murmur rolled around the table. The man across from Hugo bared his teeth, but there was hesitation in the movement as he revealed his hand — three of a kind, sevens. Decent, but not enough.
Hugo spread his own: a flush, neat and inevitable.
The cheer went up from the crowd, rough and genuine — those who'd backed the old man thumping the table and howling their delight. Others groaned and nursed their losses. The dealer, a sharp-faced woman with more rings than fingers, slid the pot to Hugo with a smirk. "Tide's turned, eh, Greybeard?"
Hugo gathered the winnings, his battered gauntlets moving with a deftness that belied the age and wear in his armor. He counted out shares for the two younger men and the wiry woman seated nearby, each of them members of his "team" — a couple of recruits he'd hired to spend the evening quietly nursing drinks, listening for rumors, and passing subtle signs among themselves. He pressed a neat stack of coins into each palm, drawing grateful nods and muttered thanks, before scattering into the crowd.
He had barely finished when the losing man shoved his chair back with a harsh scrape. The movement knocked over his mug, sending ale pooling across the scattered cards and prompting a few curses from the other players. The man glared, jaw bunched tight, and for a moment the tension seemed to clamp down on the whole table. Several patrons paused mid-drink, eyeing the confrontation from beneath heavy brows.
Hugo looked up and met his gaze without flinching, a small, humorless smile twitching at the edge of his lips. "Luck's a fickle mistress," he said, his tone even and unimpressed.
The man spat, "That she is, greybeard. Best you remember that." Shoulders squared, he turned and stalked away, boots thudding on the warped floorboards as the bar's smoke swallowed him whole.
The tension snapped. Half the table burst into laughter, and a round of ribald jokes washed away the threat. Hugo's companions relaxed, trading glances that were equal parts relief and wariness.
A sandy-haired scout leaned closer, keeping his voice low. "You've got more guts than me, boss. Word is that fellow's tied to the Iron Horn gang."
Hugo arched a brow, absently rolling his shoulder to work out a persistent ache. "Iron Horn? Sound like new faces. Why should I be worried?"
The scout shrugged, lips thin. "New gang, old faces. They've been swallowing up the smaller outfits on the west side for weeks. Folks say Icefinger's men are behind it, or at least backing them."
Hugo snorted softly. "Wouldn't be the first time a sore loser tried to buy back his pride. I'll live."
Above, the [Wasp] drone detached from its hiding spot and crept along the ceiling beams, its red eye flickering. Alpha's voice hummed into his ear, the words wrapped in dry amusement. "That's enough for tonight. Best not linger, or people will start asking questions of their own."
"Copy that," Hugo murmured, concealing his reply with the rim of his mug. He allowed himself a small, crooked grin. "Never was one for lingering, anyway."
He stood, but before he could leave, a woman slipped into the empty seat across from him. Ink stained her fingers, and a battered ledger rested beneath her arm. She tapped a coin on the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sound all but lost beneath the tavern's din. To most, it would have meant nothing, but Hugo recognized the cadence instantly — a Shadowtongue code, older than the city itself. His pulse gave a brief, involuntary jump as he eased back down, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
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It seemed his contacts had paid off after all. Letting word leak that he was back in town was risky, but if you wanted results in Halirosa, patience rarely beat speed. Tonight, at least, his bet on urgency had drawn blood.
She was not what most would call a beauty. If anything, her features could be called plain, her nose too sharp and her hair scraped back in a tight knot. Yet something in her easy smile and open posture drew the eye, a friendly sort of charm that was only undermined by the cold sharpness in her gaze — the same hungry calculation Hugo had learned to spot in city brokers and street informants alike.
He angled his head, murmuring quietly into the comm just beneath his breath. "New informant, then."
Alpha's voice crackled softly in his ear. "Is that a problem?"
Hugo kept his eyes on the woman's face, reading the subtle twitch of her lips as she caught the code's return. "Yes and no. It means none of the big players have clocked us yet, which is good. But it also means she won't be as reliable. Shadowtongue on the rise, not the throne."
The woman smiled as she settled into the chair across from Hugo, that plain but pleasant face arranging itself into a mask of easy familiarity. She rapped her knuckles on the battered tabletop in a little staccato rhythm, as if to chase away the ghosts of the previous game. "Voss, isn't it?" she asked, her voice low and cheerful. "Word was you'd washed up somewhere more respectable, but I guess the old Den still has its charms."
Hugo returned her smile with a bland one of his own, cold in the eyes, posture lazy but alert. "Respectability's a poor fit, and these walls have thicker ears than most." He nodded toward the pile of coins. "If you're here for small talk, you'll need to pay your way in. Otherwise, let's get to business. Time's short."
For just a second, her poise wavered, lips parting as if caught off guard by his bluntness. Then she tucked a stray hair behind her ear and leaned in, a conspirator's twinkle in her eye. "Direct. I like that. Saves everyone trouble." She fished a stub of charcoal from her ledger and began absentmindedly doodling a pattern along the page's edge. "You want rumors, you want news. Which do you want first?"
"The city," Hugo said. "State of things. I've heard more shouting in the streets this week than the last two years combined."
The informant made a face, mouth twisting as she considered how to start. "The Guild's jumpy. They say an expedition west went sideways, though details are scarce — some say bandits, some say worse. What's certain is a lot of important folk are missing or 'indisposed.' That's on top of the refugee tide out of the east. The Radiant Sea's gone to chaos, and everyone who isn't running is watching to see what crawls out next. Or looking for a way in so they can snatch their own piece of the pie."
Beneath the table, Hugo's gloved thumb traced the rim of his mug, watching her closely. Above, Alpha, tuned in through the comm, considered the implications with rising unease.
Where are they getting word of the expedition already? We should have had two days, at least before Robert or his men made it back.
He pulsed the thought quietly. Hugo didn't blink. "Sounds like someone wants people scared," he said, voice carefully flat. "Anyone pushing the story in particular?"
She shrugged, then rolled her eyes. "Depends on the street. But you know how it is — rumors catch faster than fire in a dry spell, especially when the Guild starts pulling its top teams off the boards and out of the city. I've heard whispers that Icefinger's men are stoking the flames. Planting stories, making sure everyone's asking the wrong questions." She paused, hesitating, then leaned closer, voice dropping even lower. "Some say he's preparing for something big. Though no one knows for sure."
Alpha's voice flickered in Hugo's ear, a soft drone: "Makes sense. If Icefinger's men can get the city nervous, they'll be ready to spin any news that does come in. He'll want the first word."
Hugo grunted. "And the High Clans?"
A quick smile. "They're moving. Half the scions and favored sons are buying up gear, maps, and spirit tablets. The rest are jockeying for a place in whatever the elders decide to do next. Word is they'll be sending teams east as soon as the roads are clear, looking to stake claims in the Sea before someone else does. Gold rush, spirit beasts, forbidden techniques, old ruins — take your pick. Every rumor gets bigger the farther it travels."
She was warming to her work now, voice brightening as she continued. "And not just them. The sects, the free companies, even the temple guards. Anyone who's got a stake is sharpening knives and packing bags. It's going to be a mess." She flipped a page in her ledger, fingers twitching with excitement. "The city's never seen anything like it. I've got a friend who swears the markets are going to collapse under the weight of all the 'rare' spirit herbs flooding in. If you've got coin, now's the time to buy low and sell high."
She hesitated, caught herself, then pressed on, just a bit too eager. "And the underground's restless too. You can feel it. The big gangs — Icefinger's lot especially — are moving pieces behind the scenes. A lot of the smaller crews are scared, trying to decide who to back or where to hide. Word is, if the Clans march east, Halirosa's going to be wide open for anyone bold enough to try something. Don't ask me what, but folks are nervous. More than usual."
Her mouth snapped shut, color rising in her cheeks as she realized how much she'd let slip. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the gloom of the Den for listening ears.
Hugo's gaze didn't waver. "It seems like a lot is going on. It's good to know someone so… in the loop."
She flashed a nervous smile, too bright. "A fast city, Voss, favors fast learners. Anyway, if you want more, you know how it goes — got to mind your sources."
Hugo leaned in, lowering his voice. "Then let's mind them together. What are you hearing about targets? Names. Places. You brought a ledger, not just for show."
The woman's bravado wilted. She glanced at the door, the knot of rough-looking drinkers near the bar, then back at Hugo. "Some things… some things are too hot to say, even here. There's talk of a sweep, maybe even a purge, if the wrong people get wind of it. I'm not sticking my neck out any further tonight."
He slid two gold coins across the table with the side of his gauntlet. The weight of them landed like a promise. "You'll need more than luck to keep your head above water when it breaks. If you can't say more, surely you know someone who can."
Her eyes darted from the coins to his face, then down at the ledger. With trembling fingers, she sketched a crude map on the back of a receipt, marking a nondescript alley near the eastern wall. "Midnight tomorrow. If I'm not there, forget you ever saw me."
She rose so quickly that her chair nearly toppled, coins swept into her palm. The ledger vanished into the folds of her coat as she melted into the crowd.
Hugo watched her go, then picked up the map. Alpha's voice buzzed, cautious and dry: "Trap?"
"Could be," Hugo muttered, tucking the scrap inside his armor. "But it's the best lead we've got."
He stood and moved for the door, weaving through the Den's fug of stale beer and nervous gossip. The night pressed in as he stepped out, a chill wind threading the city's alleys and lamp-lit gloom.
Hugo paused beneath a flickering lantern, map in hand, the weight of old debts and new dangers settling on his shoulders. The sounds of the Den faded behind him, swallowed by Halirosa's uneasy dark.