Feather

December 23rd.

It is morning now. My order should have arrived by now, so I slowly get up from the bed. Last night I stayed at an inn in the Entertainment District, definitely not as comfortable as my skyloft. The distance from the Entertainment District to the Jewelry District is about two full hours, roughly 25 kilometers.

Of course, Clockthon is incredibly large. Three thousand square kilometers is massive, even for a nation that is huge in itself. To the east lies the Heavenly Sword Palace. I still do not know why, but the palace is built outside the Capital, in a small city named "Königsresidenz."

This world's language is all mixed up, with vocabulary that resembles German, Dutch, and every other tongue imaginable. Then, still in my Jester costume, I walk out toward the coachmen's post.

One coachman is sleeping. I approach and tap their shoulder.

"Can you take me to the Jewelry District?" I ask gently.

The coachman jolts awake. "Of course, the fare is two gryn, do you mind?"

A standard price. At least they are honest. Most people would quote three gryn or higher, but for someone from a small town, that would be expensive. Back there, the fare is about five grior for every twenty kilometers, but obviously it is not a crowded capital.

"No problem," I answer with a smile.

I climb onto the seat of the carriage and watch all the morning activities in the Entertainment District. Many drunkards lie asleep across the street, and food stalls are opening again. Some of them surely sell soup-based meals.

Clop clop clop.

After two hours, I wake up because I am a bit exhausted. Luckily the carriage is well covered and even has a headrest, so I dozed off.

"Sir, we've arrived," says the coachman.

"All right."

I get down and hand over the two gryn as agreed. Then I immediately run into a quiet alley and, right beside the garbage heap, I open the Ouroboros lid.

Clank clank clank.

I stroll toward Milverton's place. As usual, his underlings are now quite soft toward me and open the door without fuss.

I step inside and Milverton is already waiting, sitting in his chair.

"Milverton, did you get it?" I ask, a bit curious.

"Of course. Sit down first. I want to tell you something," says Milverton. "Aubert, make some coffee, no sugar."

"Right away, sir," says a man's voice from inside.

"That? You finally hired a butler?" I ask.

"Of course. I do not need to run back and forth for things anymore." He lets out a dry laugh.

"So? You got it?"

"Yes," he answers seriously.

He then opens his drawer and pulls out a cloth pouch. "Here. Fifty grams of Soil of Paans and twenty grams of Ice Worm."

"All right. Oh, I will also be doing some work here now. You don't mind, do you?"

"Work? What work? James, this place is not an office. We are facilitators. Suppliers. Not a base for side projects."

"Who said this is a side project?" I take the cup of coffee handed to me by Aubert, his new butler, who moves about without a single word of complaint. I sip it. Bitter, strong. "I am going to work from here. Using your operation as a base. Consider it an upgrade."

Milverton laughs, but it sounds nervous. "An upgrade? James, with all due respect, I have been running this business for ten years. I know how it works. You come and go, you bring interesting trouble and hefty payments. That is our arrangement. Don't ruin it."

"Our arrangement changed the moment you stole House Droct's ledger for me," I say calmly, putting the cup down. "You and I both know that 'Project Motley' is a big project."

Silence fills the room. Aubert, the butler, who is wiping down a small table in the corner, pauses for a moment, then continues working as if he heard nothing at all.

"What are you planning?" Milverton finally asks, his tone different now.

"Your plan," I correct him. "I will only help you see its potential. Tell me, what is your biggest problem right now? Aside from the fact that you just stole from a secret organization that funds shell companies."

Milverton ignores the jab. He thinks for a moment. "Competition. Always competition. There are too many small-time players in Clockthon. Petty thieves, amateur smugglers, little gangs fighting over territory barely two blocks wide. They are unreliable, loud, and draw too much attention from the City Guard. To get high-quality goods like the ones you asked for, I have to go through five or six middlemen, each taking their cut and adding to the risk."

"That's what I mean," I say. "You operate in a market that is wild and inefficient."

"But what does that mean?"

"It means we stop focusing on 'goods.' Goods are risky. Hard to store, hard to move, easy to trace. Our real asset, Milverton, is information. That is what we are going to sell."

"The Clockthon underworld runs on sudden needs. An alchemist runs out of rare ingredients. A noble loses an heirloom to gambling. A corrupt official needs to launder his money fast. They are all desperate. And desperation makes them pay well," I say.

I stand and draw a circle on a board in the right corner. "This is us. 'Second Greed Kings,' a terrible name, we'll change that later." I draw some lines radiating from the circle. "Right now, you wait for people to come to you, or you hear rumors. That's reactive. We're going to make it proactive."

I start writing on the board, connecting ideas with lines and arrows.

"One: We build an information gathering network. A beggar in the Jewelry District who overhears rich ladies' complaints. A barmaid in the Government District who hears drunken bureaucrats brag. Dockworkers who see what cargo comes and goes. They are our eyes and ears. They cost little, zero risk."

"Two: We do not sell this information to just anyone. We sell it as solutions. Client A needs something from another region. Our network tells us that Client B, a farmer or distributor, has just brought it back. We can arrange for Client B to 'coincidentally' meet someone interested in it, Client A. We take a commission from both for this matchmaking service."

Milverton stares at the board, his eyes widen as he begins to grasp the scale. "That is complicated. It would require an incredible organization."

"Three: Systems," I continue, ignoring his doubt. I start drawing a flow diagram. "Every piece of information that comes in will be coded and logged. Needs, assets, location, urgency, profit potential. We will catalogue the hidden desires and desperation of the entire city. We will know what someone wants before they even know it. When a nobleman comes to you because he needs a way out of his gambling debt, you can hand him the money and also offer a ready-made solution: 'I hear Lord X is looking for a racehorse with the same lineage as yours. Maybe you two should do business.' Or something like that."

I put down the chalk.

"How do we start?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"We start small," I reply. "We need a case study. Give me one problem you could not solve. One client with an impossible request."

Milverton thinks hard. "There is one. A woman. Madame Grivana. She owns the most exclusive brothel in the Entertainment District, 'The Velvet Mask.' Her clients are the city's elite. She needs something very specific. A 'Griffon Feather.'"

"I've heard of that. The last griffon is believed to have died a hundred years ago," I say.

"Exactly. That's why it's impossible. She offered me five hundred pure gold gryn for that feather alone. She says it's for 'a very important client.' I asked all my contacts. Nothing. That item doesn't exist."

"Nothing ever really doesn't exist, Milverton. It's just in the wrong place," I smile. "Tell me everything you know about Madame Grivana. Her habits, her enemies, her friends. More importantly, tell me everything about 'The Velvet Mask.' Who are her regulars?"

For the next hour, Milverton tells me everything he knows. I do not write anything down. Madame Grivana is a clever woman. Her clients include a chief justice, a merchant guild leader, and even a captain in the City Guard. She holds the secrets of many important people.

"She won't tell you who the feather is for," Milverton says in conclusion. "Too risky."

"She doesn't need to tell me," I reply. I walk back to the board and erase all the diagrams. I leave only one name in the center: Madame Grivana.

"We look for the reason someone would need a griffon feather. According to legend, what is it used for?"

Milverton frowns. "It's said to heal the worst lung diseases. A children's legend."

"Good. So we look for someone who is rich, powerful, connected to Madame Grivana, and dying of a lung disease. And they must be hiding it, otherwise they would have summoned the royal physician." I start drawing lines from Grivana's name, listing her clients. "Chief Justice Valentine. Age sixty-eight, healthy as a horse. Guild Leader Marius. Fat, heavy drinker, but no rumors of illness. Captain Valentine… wait, what's that captain's last name?"

"Valentine. Captain Marcus Valentine," Milverton says.

"He's the Chief Justice's son?"

"Yes. Their relationship is bad. The judge sees his son as a disgrace for joining the Guard instead of following him into law."

I smile faintly. "Interesting. Anyone else?"

"There is one more important client," says Milverton hesitantly. "Lord Xerxes of House Droct."

I freeze. "Lord Xerxes himself? I didn't think he'd visit a place like that."

"Not directly. He sends his chief guard to 'arrange' private encounters for their board's special guests. Grivana hates him. She says the Droct people have no elegance."

I stare at the names. A judge, a captain, a guild leader, House Droct. One of them, or someone close to them, is the key.

"Aubert," I call.

The butler appears instantly. "Sir?"

"Do you have access to the City Hall's public records? Specifically, pharmacy spending and import permits for medical supplies in the past six months?" I know full well Aubert is not just any servant.

Aubert does not blink. "I have a contact at the archive office, sir. It may require a bit of financial 'motivation.'"

"Good," I say, tossing a few silver coins to Milverton. "Pay him. I want a list of cough syrups, respiratory tonics, or anything related to lung ailments. Look for large or recurring purchases made by households or individuals linked to these names. Do it quietly."

Aubert nods and leaves at once.

"What do you expect from this?" Milverton asks.

"Confirmation," I say. "If someone is quietly buying large amounts of cough medicine, they are fighting an illness they do not want to make public. And if the medicine does not work, they will turn to more exotic solutions."

Two hours later, Aubert returns with a slim scroll. He hands it to me. I unroll it.

Recurring purchases, every week: Cheshire Blossom Syrup. Buyer: On behalf of Chief Justice Valentine's residence. Collected by a young servant, identity unknown.

"Cheshire Blossom Syrup," I say softly. "It's a strong remedy, but it has side effects if used too long. It can damage the heart."

"So it's the Chief Justice who is sick?" Milverton asks.

"No," I reply. "If the judge were sick, he wouldn't risk shady medicine. He would summon the best physicians in the kingdom. Besides, you said he's healthy as a horse. But a stubborn, prideful father might refuse to admit that his 'disgrace' of a son is dying. He might try to treat him in secret to avoid shame."

I point to Captain Marcus Valentine's name on the board. "Our target is him. Madame Grivana is the intermediary. His father is footing the bill. Now we know the 'why.' Next is the 'where.'"

"Where what? That feather doesn't exist," Milverton presses.

"The feather might not exist. But the 'story' of the feather does. And in this world, a story is often worth more than the truth. Where can we find the largest collection of mythological and natural history artifacts in Clockthon?"

Milverton thinks for a moment. "The Royal Museum. But their collection is under tight lock. Even if they have a griffon feather, it would be a Class One artifact. Impossible to steal."

"Who says we're going to steal it?" I smile. "Aubert. Find out who the head curator is for the 'Extinct Species' department at that museum. I want to know everything about them."