Chapter 33: Prepare for Trouble, and Make it Double

“That’s because we told him to keep us on the down-low,” Little Boy declared, pointing a boney finger at Damien. “In our line of work, too much attention is a bad thing! This ain’t like a legitimate business, we don’t do advertisements here.”

“We’re the Allen Keys, the best smugglers in the region, and we move cargo from place to place: no questions, no failure,” Fat Man continued, picking up the thread from his partner. “Through rain, sleet and snow, around every patrol and toll, we’ll get your goods where they’re needed.”

“For a small fee, naturally,” Little Boy finished off, the pair of them remarkably in sync. “But far less than the competition asks, oh yes. Why, for the small price of only ten percent of your earnings, we’ll even throw in a no win no fee guarantee…”

I zoned out as the pair continued, only half-listening as the pair of outlaws proclaimed the greatness of their smuggling operation with a surprising degree of showmanship, given their claim to avoid advertising. It was pretty clear by that point that, beyond their organisation’s name, very little of value would be coming from their screed, so I let my attention drift, to take in the small details that actually mattered. Little Boy seemed to be struggling to keep up with the speech: several times, I watched him pause, his hands twitching and reaching for the table, for something that didn’t exist. Never for long, as he reasserted control of his limbs once he realised what was happening, but combined with the smacking of his lips, it was pretty obvious what was going on.

There’d normally be refreshments at a meeting like this. That was a basic courtesy and a fact of life, a bit of food and water to make everyone’s life easier, in case the negotiations dragged on as they often did. Tea or coffee, preferably, or a glass of water at minimum, but this time there was nothing. Clearly, Damien’s warning on my capabilities had been heeded, but they’d been working with faulty information, and assumed that my prowess depended on the presence of liquid: an unfortunate oversight, albeit understandable, given how little I’d shown off thus far. Fat Man was faring better, his voice strong and steady throughout, indicative of someone with plenty of experience at public speaking. Not particularly energetic in his delivery, and I got the sense that most of what he was saying came from a speech recited by rote, but it got the point across, which was what mattered in the end.

Curiously, neither of the men opposite me were armed, at least not visibly. I didn’t doubt the presence of a hidden shiv or two, but even forgoing the appearance of weaponry was a statement of sorts, one that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. Did they believe themselves safe, because we approached this meeting under the flag of truce? Possible. Alternatively, they were greatly underestimating me, which seemed unlikely if they were willing to take precautions merely to safeguard against my supposed powers. Idly, my eyes met the man at the back again: he hadn’t moved since we started, resembling a statue more than a human being.

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The System wasn’t any more helpful now, either, its detection foiled by whatever countermeasures he had in place. He noticed my eyes on him, however, and pointed at each of the two men speaking, before drawing his finger across his throat, followed by a thumbs up. All in all, a gesture that was impossible to misinterpret, though it raised more questions than answers, why someone ostensibly on the same side would be happy to see the pair die.

“...so you see, with your talent at hiding things in plain sight, you’re the perfect man to join our crew.”

Little boy was breathing heavily now, his lungs protesting the impromptu workout.

“For a very generous three percent of the total profit, you too can become a courier in the night. What do you say?”

Fat Man grinned, revealing two surprisingly healthy rows of teeth: whatever else had gone on in the fighting ring, he’d clearly sported a mouthguard during his bouts.

“To summarise, you want me to sign a five-year contract to join your organisation. During that time, I’d be helping load carriages, drive them, and keep a lookout for Kingdom patrols and toll collectors, all while delivering packages filled with contraband to nearby towns and cities. All this,for three percent of the take at the end. Does that sound right?”

“See, you got it already,” Little Boy simpered, pulling a row of parchment out from under the table.. “I can already tell, you’ll be a model member of the Allen Keys; if you would, just sign here, here and here?”

The terms of the contract were nothing special; much more verbose when written down than in the spoken word, but they were broadly analogous to the pair’s explanation. What concerned me was not the contract itself, but the power I could feel in the parchment, being enough to make my hair stand on end despite my present lack of magical senses. Somehow, I got the impression that, if I were to sign this piece of paper, breaking the contract wouldn't be quite as simple as the old cut and run. Taking the quill from Fat Man’s outstretched hand, I considered the document carefully, pretending to read at a much slower pace, as would be expected of a first time negotiator, rather than the seasoned operator I was in truth.

Eventually, I got to the bottom of the document, and frowned at the blank spot that thirsted for my ink, metaphorically speaking.

“Damien,” I said, making the boy next to me jerk in his seat. “I thought you were told to negotiate good terms for me. Three percentage of the net profit to be worked like a dog, is this your idea of a good deal?”