At that very same moment, in the back garden of Ollivander's Wand Shop, a wild white cat dropped silently from the top of the wall, padded toward its usual corner, and settled in for a well-earned nap.
It was yawning as it went, moving with that particular self-satisfied swagger unique to cats — and then it stopped. Twitched its nose.
That's odd. Where's the smell of catmint?
Its eyes snapped open. It stared at the weeds around it, utterly baffled. Where's my catmint? Where's my stick?
The white cat was instantly, fully awake. It began circling the garden in frantic loops. Ten minutes later, it accepted the truth and let out a screech of outrage: Who did this?! Who stole my things?!
Thief! Bandit! Villain!
Just you wait — when I get my paws on you, you'll pay for this!
It gnashed its teeth and then, sitting upright, thrust a forepaw into an invisible "pocket" near its belly and fished out a few catmint leaves. One deep, deliberate sniff — and the world came back into sharp focus.
Thus restored, it shook out its fluffy coat, bounded out of the garden, and followed its nose. It tracked the scent all the way to the Leaky Cauldron.
The flood of smells that hit it at the entrance was instant chaos. The cat froze in the doorway, overwhelmed, and let out a silent wail: No! My trail!
Then a pair of small, slender hands scooped it up. "Oh, where did this little cat come from? Poor thing."
"Probably one of the pub's strays. Put it back, Hermione — I have patients to see this afternoon."
"Yes, Dad."
The girl had a wild cloud of curly hair, a pair of prominent front teeth that gave her a faint resemblance to an otter, and the hesitant manner of someone arguing with themselves. "…It just so happens I still need a pet."
"That doesn't mean you can take someone else's."
"I know, Dad."
She pressed her lips together, carried the cat to the bar, and addressed the landlord: "Excuse me, Tom — is this white cat yours?"
"White cat?"
Tom squinted at it. "My dear, I do believe that's an orange cat."
"What?"
The girl looked down. Sure enough, where a white cat had been a moment ago, there now sat a marmalade tabby with white markings. Her eyes lit up: Even better!
…
In the world of Lord of the Mysteries, it was the second day after Vincent Moriarty had become a Broker.
One night had been more than enough to map out the full range of abilities that came with the Broker sequence.
The so-called "ability to more keenly perceive certain needs" meant that by observing the people around him and reading the prompts of his spiritual instinct, he could identify those who were in a state of pressing need.
Then, through conversation, he could draw out the specifics of that need, find someone capable of fulfilling it, and broker a meeting between the two parties — facilitating a deal or a cooperation.
It sounded complicated. At its core, it was a middleman. Which made sense — "broker" was just a common word for intermediary, go-between, or agent.
So, to play the role properly, should I audition to become an estate agent? Or perhaps set myself up as an information trader? Or find some rising talent and manage their career — there are celebrities in this world, surely?
Yes — because of Roselle, the entertainment industry in the world of Lord of the Mysteries was remarkably well developed.
As with all Sequence abilities granted through the Tarot pathway, the Broker sequence required roleplay to digest. Then, when a sufficient number of deals and partnerships had been facilitated — when the scales tipped into balance once more — came advancement to the next Sequence.
What puzzled Vincent, though, was that he had never once taken a Broker potion. So what exactly was there to "digest"? Unless… the grey crystal injected into him at the time was itself the Broker potion?
That would at least save him the trouble of hunting down the ingredients — and the money.
Beyond familiarising himself with the Broker Sequence, Vincent had also revisited that mysterious room. The colour had returned. Where before there had been only washed-out grey, tiny vivid patches of colour now appeared — scattered across every corner like splashes of paint, like a computer screen gone wrong.
His spiritual intuition told him: as his Broker potion continued to digest, the coloured patches would spread — until they covered the entire room. When that happened, he would be able to push open that door and step through into whatever lay beyond.
"My dear lady, are you certain you can help me?"
A voice pulled him back to the present. He turned to look at the middle-aged man beside him, wearing a threadbare suit, his face a study in hope and flattery. "I swear — just get me another hundred pounds. No, fifty, even — and I can pull back every penny I've sunk into that investment. I'll repay you ten times over, I promise."
Vincent smiled pleasantly. "Is that right? How wonderful."
Before leaving that morning, he had asked Vivienne to help him change his appearance. Perhaps owing to Roselle's influence, the cosmetics industry in this world was genuinely sophisticated. After a thorough session, the striking features that belonged to Bernadette were almost entirely concealed. With short hair, a hat, and a grey androgynous coat and trousers, even Roselle herself would be hard pressed to connect this figure to Bernadette.
This middle-aged man had found him first thing in the morning, just as Vincent was working out how to begin roleplaying as a Broker. The man had explained that an investment of his was stuck — he just needed an extra hundred pounds to recover everything.
Vincent had immediately thought: perfect test subject — and agreed on the spot to find him a solution.
They soon arrived at a seedy-looking pub on Iron Gate Street in the Backlund Bridge District. The moment they pushed the door open, a crowd of men were packed in a circle, whooping at a rat-baiting match —
When Vincent had read about this in the novel, he'd thought it sounded faintly ridiculous. In person, he found himself involuntarily curious.
Right. Come back for a look later.
He went to the bar and ordered a beer. He said, in a tone of easy familiarity: "I'm looking for Caspers Cantling. Where is he?"
"Billiards room number three."
He took a step forward and realised the middle-aged man hadn't followed. He looked back. "What's the matter? Have you gone off the idea of money?"
"Is there… really money to be had in a place like this?"
"Of course. Trust me — I'll get you your money."
The man's eyes went slightly glassy. He nodded rapidly. "All right. All right, yes."
They made their way to billiards room number three. Vincent pushed the door open gently. A heavyset old man in his fifties with a large nose and a linen shirt looked up from the table. Vincent said, "Caspers Cantling? The landlady sent me."
The old man's face opened into a smile. "Well, well! An honoured guest! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Vincent gave the middle-aged man a firm push through the doorway. "He needs money. About a hundred pounds. Can you help him out?"
The old man's yellowed teeth gleamed in a grin. "Why, of course! Moneylending is one of my core services!"
Vincent turned and gave the middle-aged man a little wave. "There you go — problem solved. Don't forget to leave a good review."
The man snapped back to himself and started waving his hands frantically. "A loan? No! I don't want a loan—" But the men nearby had already caught hold of him.
"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Cantling — do spread the word for me. If anyone you know runs into a spot of trouble and needs someone to sort it out for them, send them my way."
The old man chuckled. "Consider it done."
Click.
Vincent pulled the door shut, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself as he made his way back toward the rat-baiting ring. The man needed money, and I introduced him to a moneylender. Both parties' needs were met. Perfectly balanced.
I really am a natural-born talent at this roleplay business.
To be continued…