CHAPTER 69: ODD JOBS

The morning air pressed faintly cool through the half-open window. Lucian had slipped back into silence with the night; the one who stirred awake beneath the covers was Vencian again. He rose slowly, rubbed his temple, and told himself the academy could wait. A pause after Deluos felt earned.

Quenya hovered by the curtain, tilting her head. "Skipping class already? Strange hour for a lord to begin his day."

"I am the lord of this house," he muttered. "If I want a quiet day, I will have it."

Her small arms crossed. "And that idleness has a purpose, does it?"

He gave her a short glance, mouth pressed thin. "Not everything needs to have some kind of purpose. I’m enjoying the uselessness of today, and readying my usefulness for tomorrow."

Breakfast was already waiting. Bread, broth, a slice of pale cheese. He ate without appetite. His eyes strayed to the folded letter from his mother. He had carried it to the table but left it unopened. His spoon stirred the broth without reason. The words he owed her weighed heavier than the meal itself.

The door opened. Valin stepped inside, posture proper, face unreadable. In her hand was a folded parchment. She moved to his side and placed it by his plate.

"My lord," she said.

He wiped his fingers with a napkin, then looked at the seal. The sight drew a faint memory: weeks ago, before Deluos, he had ordered a list of those who threw stones at the mansion. He had nearly forgotten.

"I had thought this request lost."

Valin inclined her head. "I fulfilled it through other means. I did not send the men of the house. They would have stirred attention. Instead, I hired a certain Sagiel. He works for coin, and coin alone. He has a name for reliability."

Vencian tore the seal and unfolded the page. Names in a firm hand covered the sheet. At the bottom, one line drew his eyes—the ringleader’s tie to Marvik Vicorra.

The spoon halted midair. He set it down. The broth clung to the back of his throat, suddenly too strong.

He lowered the parchment to the table, fingers tapping once at its edge. Why had he not thought of this himself? If a man like Sagiel could find this, then perhaps there were greater things he could uncover.

"Valin." His voice was calm, clipped. "This Sagiel—where is he usually found?"

She hesitated. "My lord wishes to hire him again? If a time comes, you may tell me what is needed, and I can handle it. Men like him can be... unusual. Best you avoid dealing with him yourself."

He stirred the broth with his spoon, gaze fixed on the bowl. Inwardly, he almost smiled. Odd job men, the kind who dug into corners and found what others missed, often came across as strange. He had met their sort before, in different lives. The strangeness was part of their trade.

"I want his address regardless," he said, his tone steady. "If he proves useful again, I prefer to know where to find him."

Valin bowed her head slightly, reluctant. "As you wish, my lord. I will have it written for you."

"That will be enough." He set the spoon down and folded the parchment. "Keep him in reach. A servant loyal to coin may prove useful."

"Yes, my lord." She curtsied and stepped back, eyes lowered.

Vencian leaned against the chair, the paper firm beneath his palm. He kept his face unreadable, but his thoughts were already moving ahead. Sagiel would not serve the house alone.

— — —

The address Valin provided led him through the lower quarter, where the cobblestones sloped uneven underfoot and the plaster walls leaned inward as if trying to keep secrets from the streets. Lucian wore a plain cloak, hood down, the expression on his face relaxed enough to pass for idle curiosity.

Quenya darted invisibly by his shoulder, her whisper brushing his ear. "This is where you send household coin now? Doesn’t look promising."

"Looks aren’t the measure," he replied. His mouth curved into something between a smirk and a patient grin. "If the report was written by a drunk, then perhaps drunks write better than I expected."

She snickered, then vanished out of sight, choosing to scout ahead.

The loft sat above a crooked alley shop. The stairs creaked under his weight, the smell of spilled ale and damp wood rising with every step. He pressed a hand to the warped door and pushed.

The hinges complained.

Inside, a man sprawled half off a mat, hair sticking in clumps like old straw, mouth half-open as he breathed through the hangover. Bottles leaned against the wall in clusters, and the air stank of sour alcohol.

Lucian—Vencian—stopped at the doorway, unsettled briefly before managing a smile. "Perfect," he muttered.

The man stirred, lifting his head. "Eh?" His words slurred together. "Who—who’s that? Rent’s not due till... till something."

Lucian stepped inside, boot tapping an empty bottle aside. "You’re Sagiel?"

The man squinted. "That depends. Who’s asking?" His voice cracked like he hadn’t had water in days.

Lucian set his cloak over a chair that wobbled at the touch. "Your client. Or one of them, at least."

Sagiel groaned, tried to sit up, then lost balance and fell back onto the mat. "Ah. Right. Client. Yes. I knew that."

Instead of bristling, Lucian chuckled. The scene was so far from what he expected that irritation felt like wasted energy.

"You’re either very good at your work," he said, "or you’re very lucky a patron of yours spoke in your favor. Which is it?"

Sagiel tried to rise again, this time with more effort. His foot caught on the edge of the mat and he stumbled forward. A bottle tipped and rolled across the floor. He made a lunge for it, failed, then rushed toward a bucket in the corner.

The retching came hard and sudden. Liquid splattered against the inside and out. A spray hit the floorboards, close enough to Lucian’s boots to spot them with bile.

Quenya’s laughter rang near his ear. He only wiped the sole of his boot against the rough floor, shaking his head. "Impressive welcome. You plan all your introductions like this?"

Sagiel spat into the bucket, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned with bleary eyes. "Shows character, doesn’t it? You don’t want a man too polished. Makes him suspicious."

Vencian laughed outright. "Is that so? Then you must be the most trustworthy man in this district."

Sagiel managed a crooked smile before collapsing back onto his mat. "Finally, someone who understands."

He let silence fill the loft for a beat, watching Sagiel.

Then he spoke. "There is another matter. If you can manage it."

Sagiel scratched his jaw, eyes half-lidded. "Depends on the pay. Depends on the boredom too. Some jobs are too dull."

"This one may test both." Lucian said "The Valemont mansion. I want to know when Seris leaves, who visits, and what errands they send servants on. You will keep track of the patterns and report back."

Sagiel blinked at him. Then he laughed, a rough, tired sound. "You nobles and your mansions. Everyone thinks spying on a grand house is like counting chickens in a pen. It’s more like trying to watch shadows dance on a wall."

Vencian raised a brow. "So you refuse?"

"Didn’t say that." Sagiel sat upright again, more steady now. He reached under a loose floorboard and dragged out a bundle wrapped in cloth. From it he pulled folded scraps of paper, each lined with cramped marks. "Still got some sketches of the district. Old work. Paid once to track a servant girl who kept slipping off to see her lover. Turns out the lover was in the next street over, so I mapped the routes."

He spread the papers over the floor between them. The marks showed alleys, servants’ doors, watchmen routes. Some corners were smudged, but the layout was there.

Vencian bent forward, eyes narrowing in interest. "You had this prepared?"

"Prepared? No. Hoarded. Never throw out maps. Streets don’t change so quick." Sagiel leaned back on his hands, smug. "So, you see, your noble house is troublesome, but not impossible."

For the first time since entering, Vencian’s smirk thinned into something closer to respect. The stench, the bottles, the vomiting—all faded against the evidence on the floor.

"You’ll take the job, then."

Sagiel shrugged. "If the coin’s right. And if you don’t mind a man who sleeps through mornings."

"I care about results." Vencian rose, brushing dust from his cloak. "You deliver, you’ll be paid. Fail, and you won’t hear from me again."

Sagiel tilted his head, grinning with half-closed eyes. "Fair bargain. Though between us, you’ll be back. Clients always come back."

Vencian laughed once, short and sharp. "We’ll see."

He turned for the door. Behind him, Sagiel flopped back onto his mat with a sigh of relief, like the whole meeting had been an exhausting performance.

Quenya slipped back into sight at his shoulder as he stepped into the stairwell. "That was the man you were so eager to find?"

"Yes." His grin returned. "Exactly the man."

She frowned. "He’s a drunk."

"And a drunk who keeps maps." He descended the stairs two at a time. "That is the more useful kind."

The alley air smelled cleaner than the loft, and the noise of the street pressed back into his ears. Vencian pulled his cloak tighter, still amused. Sagiel might be useless. He might be brilliant. Either way, he would hire him.