Chapter 35: Gladhanding

I may have mentioned before, but my inventory was very useful for mundane purposes too. Removing the blood on my clothes, from a short-lived scuffle, and even the residue of the splattered plum beneath Damien’s boot. Neither of these acts generated a usable item, so presumably they merely vanished, forever lost in whatever void the System used as a garbage disposal, but more importantly, it kept me clean, and obscured the cause of death to a degree as well. Doubtless, the spectators to our fight knew I did something to make Damien trip and fall, but that could be interpreted in many different ways, and I preferred to keep my hand hidden, where possible.

In any event, with Damien out of the way, the remaining members of the Allen Keys (a name that would never fail to remind me of DIY furniture) seemed much more at ease, and willing to genuinely negotiate. Was the late orphan simply horrible at the table, or was he in truth a test, to see how I reacted to being scammed? Honestly, I gave it even odds on either option. In his absence, the man at the wall had taken the now vacant seat next to me, showing a commendable lack of fear, given the untimely demise of its previous occupant. More importantly, whether it was my actions or the fulfilment of some condition set by the System, I was now able to see his name tag.

[Harvey Miller - Level 3 Thief

Dead Hand: Frontier Branch]

His name was ordinary, enough to either be true or false, while the class was likewise within the range of expectations: for it was only natural for a criminal enterprise to be heavy on thieves. Far more interesting to me, however, was the second line, which I understood to be the spot typically occupied by Titles. Now, I only had one title, and in keeping with what the library had taught me, they weren’t easy to get. Typically, they were rewarded by the System only for particularly life changing events, such as a first kill, in my case. For membership of an organisation to merit a title, more than anything else, signified that it was one that had some teeth, particularly given the branch designation, and the international connections that implied.

I flicked my eyes up briefly, and Harvey inclined his head. He’d intended to show me this, then. As we were both facing one another, on the same side of the table, neither the Little Boy nor the Fat Man saw this bit of byplay, which I also believed to be intentional: as I’d surmised earlier, they were also subordinates, while the silent man was the authority here.

“So, I have to ask,” I began, glancing back to the peanut gallery for a moment. “These two and their names…”

“Fake, naturally,” Harvey confirmed my suspicions. “They are both local to this area, and are responsible for our local stockpiles, so it would be problematic, were their identities revealed. I am a traveller, never staying in one place for too long, and I intend to move again shortly, so there is no risk in revealing myself.”

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An explanation and a veiled threat all in one: after all, I was also a local, as far as they knew. I was almost impressed. Behind me, Pumpkin walked up and hopped onto my lap, having eaten his fill in the interim. I swept a hand over his face, removing the odd bloodstain, but on the whole he was a careful groomer, and didn’t need more than a little nudge here and there. The lazy cat settled down, head first on my lap and began to snore.

“Fair enough,” I shrugged, unruffled by the reveal. “I’m hoping to move on as well, while we’re on the topic. Allensward. Well, it wasn’t a bad place to grow up, but there’s no real future here, not for the ambitious.”

“Ambition is to be respected,” Harvey nodded sagely. “Very well, since you intend to play a genuine part in the great game, let me explain to you how the Dead Hand works.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Little Boy and Fat Man are both relaxed here, without a single twitch: they knew enough to not be surprised by the name drop, at least.

“Primarily, we are an organisation interested in the pursuit of profit, regardless of any laws that might impede our pursuits. This can mean different things, depending on the particulars of each Kingdom we operate in, but in Frontier? It means smuggling. Being at the northern edge of human territory, everything that happens, does so in the shadow of eternal conflict. Men and weapons come from the South to join the meat grinder, while casualties, orphans and damaged material return from the North. Around this, a vast logistical operation exists, bringing in everything from essentials like food and drink, to ammunition, to replacement clothing and entertainment.

Teleportation exists, but only works with the direct supervision of a Mage specialised in spatial magicks. There aren’t many of them, so the practice is both highly regulated, and very expensive, reserved only for critical deployments and the most expensive products. For everything else, it’s got to travel the long way around. The Kingdom of Frontier benefits from this, in the forms of tolls and taxation: the former applied to checkpoints at key locations along the north-south route, and the latter assessed upon a caravan’s arrival at their destination. These are the legal sources of revenue, but naturally, they aren’t the only ones. Corruption is a fact of life, endemic across the Kingdom, so if you’re moving goods in any significant quantities, expect to have to pay bribes along the way, to make sure everything arrives at its destination. Are you following me so far?”

I nodded, impressed with what I was hearing. Ironically, it was an outlaw who was providing the most thorough explanation of human trade I’d yet come across in this life: the library, by contrast, preferred to focus on the great deeds of heroes, while hand waving the rest away.

“Good. Now, there’s a lot of money to be made, so people still participate despite the problems, because you can still make it rich even after every greedy guard or bureaucrat takes their cut. But people don’t like it, and the search for ways around the tolls is never-ending. That’s where people like us come in.”

Harvey came from a good background, I realised, listening to him talk: there was a certain dark charisma around him, one that suggested a formal education and training in rhetoric. I hung upon his every word, as he finished his preamble and began to delve deeper.