Vincent had spent the morning doing the rounds of several taverns. After multiple failed attempts at playing his role, he arrived at a conclusion: when it came down to it, the wants of most ordinary people could be summed up in a single word — money.
With money, ninety-nine percent of their problems would dissolve overnight.
The trouble was, a broker wasn't a charity — and he couldn't very well drag everyone off to a loan shark the way he had the day before. That approach had already proven it couldn't move the product anyway.
The Green Lime Tavern, East District.
A man in a worn suit and wire-framed spectacles nursed the beer Vincent had bought him and talked through his story. "…I used to be in the grain trade. Good life. Lovely wife, well-behaved children, no worries. We even managed a trip to Desi Bay once a year."
"Then the Grain Act was repealed. Prices collapsed overnight and I lost everything. My wife took the children and remarried before long. I went from a respectable middle-class man to what I am now — scratching together odd jobs every day, just barely keeping myself fed."
He took a long drink. "But I believe that if I could just get a bit of startup capital, I could build something again. The thing is, I've nothing to put up as collateral. The banks won't touch me, and the moneylenders…"
"I've watched too many men get bled dry by those leeches. They drain you down to the last drop." His lip curled sideways into something like a grin. "Though I did hear that one of those money-grubbing thugs had both his legs broken last week. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving man."
He looked up at Vincent with weary eyes. "So, kind miss — what exactly is it you think you can do for me?"
The man before him was one of Vivienne's informants in the East District — someone who traded snippets of local gossip for a small living allowance. A humiliating arrangement, but one born of desperation after everything fell apart. Vincent had originally intended to use him to drum up clients for the tonics, but after their conversation, simpler thoughts had begun to take shape.
"From what you're saying," Vincent said, "there are many others who lost everything the same way — because of the Grain Act?"
"Plenty. I know at least a dozen personally. We tried banding together once, marching to demand compensation from the government. The police broke it up before we got anywhere. Some of the more stubborn ones wanted to keep pushing. After that…" His voice dropped low. "I never saw them again."
He muttered under his breath, "Damn the government. Damn the nobility."
Vincent thought for a moment. "Mr. Georgia — can you still get in touch with the others who went under the same way?"
"Most of them, yes. Why?" He sat up a little straighter, a tremor of something entering his voice. "You — you can actually help us?"
Vincent smiled. "I'm just a broker — a go-between. All I can do is find the right people and make the right introductions. But I'll do what I can to put something together."
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Don't thank me yet. You should understand — nothing I do comes for free."
"But I don't have any—"
"I don't want money."
Vincent said, "If I actually manage to help you — all of you — what I'll need in return is your service. From that point on, you work for me."
"Work for you? In what… sense, exactly?"
"Exactly as it sounds."
"…I understand."
After all, what do we have left to lose?
After Georgia left, full of cautious hope, Vincent fell into thought.
The biggest problem with playing the role of broker was this: a broker was a middleman — but when people had a problem, their first instinct was to go straight to whoever could solve it, not to first find a middleman and add an extra step. That was how people worked.
Which meant going out every day trawling for needs and then carefully brokering deals one by one was possible in theory, but painfully slow in practice.
So Vincent decided to change his approach entirely. Rather than focusing on the brokering itself, he would focus on what came after the word "broker" — building relationships, maintaining them, and weaving different people and factions together into a web.
Not only would that let him inhabit the role more fully, it would also make future deals and introductions far easier to pull off.
That evening, Vincent returned to the Caesar Hotel and summoned Vivienne at once.
"Your Majesty, you're back."
As Vivienne attended to her, Vincent changed into a lighter blouse. "Tomorrow, go and find Mr. Georgia. His situation — you know it better than I do. He'll introduce you to others who ended up in the same boat. I need you to look into them, pick out the ones with real ability, give them a modest investment, and bring them into your fold."
"Understood." Vivienne hesitated. "And what business should I invest them in?"
"Grain."
"…Grain?"
Vincent said evenly, "They went bankrupt because of the grain trade — but that doesn't mean they lacked skill. They were simply caught out by the sudden repeal of the Grain Act. They still have years of experience and connections in the industry."
"I understand."
Vivienne didn't, not entirely. She couldn't see why Her Majesty wanted to back a handful of ruined grain merchants. But she had not been asked for her opinion, and so she filed it away and waited.
Vincent's reasoning was twofold. On one level, it was a test — using these men's old networks to rebuild relationships, maintain them, and find a way to move the tonics through them. On another level, it was preparation for the future. He remembered that Loen would see grain prices spike sharply when the war came. If he moved early and positioned well, the resulting trade could pour a great deal of grey crystals onto the Scales.
Vivienne gave a small curtsy. "Your Majesty — I have an engagement this evening. A ball being held by a viscount. If you require anything in the meantime, please don't hesitate to call on the attendants."
"Mm." Vincent glanced up. "Which viscount?"
"His name is Glaint. An ordinary Loen viscount with a long-standing fascination with mysticism — I've been considering whether he might be worth bringing into the fold." She added, "Though truthfully, my real interest isn't in the viscount himself, but in a noblewoman he's quite close with — the daughter of the Earl of Hall, one of the great banking families."
Vincent's thoughts stirred. A competent broker couldn't afford to only work the lower rungs. A salon full of nobility — that was a different kind of hunting ground entirely.
"Take me with you."
Seven o'clock. The Queen's District. Viscount Glaint's residence.
Vincent had changed into a tailored ladies' suit and walked through the gates of the villa at Vivienne's side.
Vivienne slipped into her social manner the moment they stepped inside — greeting people, laughing warmly, falling into easy conversation as though she were an entirely different person from the reserved figure Vincent was used to.
Vincent moved through the party at her own pace, taking a glass of wine from a passing attendant and drifting through the room, reading the crowd with a broker's eye:
Hunger for companionship. Hunger for power. Hunger for money. Hunger to be seen. And here and there, people who already had partners on their arm and were nonetheless burning with want for someone else across the room. A textbook gilded cage of status and desire.
If this is where I'm supposed to broker deals… I hope it doesn't come to matchmaking. I'm a broker, not a cupid.
Just then, Vincent felt it — a gaze from the corner of the room, quiet and deliberate, tracking her movement as she walked.
She glanced over without making a show of it.
A large golden dog lay stretched in the shadows, watching the party with calm, unhurried eyes. When it noticed Vincent looking, it didn't flinch. It simply held her gaze.
Well. It had no particular reason to flinch. It was just a dog, after all.
Isn't that right, Vincent thought, you future Hound of the Void — Miss Susie.
To be continued…
No update tomorrow