Alfie’s simulacrum ambled through the streets of Babjah with a limp. It was a meandering limp with an odd cadence due to a dark wooden cane: step, drag, tap, step, tap, drag, step, tap. The cane was polished—a refined gentleman's cane. It was much like his suit, consisting of grey trousers, a grey coat, and a dangling pocket watch that hung from his jacket. If only the shoes could remain as clean—they were scrapped due to the dragging.

There was an interesting commotion: a boy, who looked about ten, was yanked by the arm. The yanker, a well-fed man with a shirt much too small, yelled at him—something about stealing. The man sold bread. He had flour stained on his shirt. The boy, however, was a street urchin: no shoes, dirty hair, crooked teeth, and tear streaks lining the dirt on his face. Bystanders scurried around them, too busy buying questionable food or rushing to and from work. It was a familiar sight. Alfie checked his pocket watch. He had time, so he moved to the side of the street to watch.

The urchin fought back. He pulled, punched, bit, clawed, but it did little to move the bread peddler. The man hauled the urchin back to his booth. He pointed to a missing piece of bread, an interesting tactic. It was a basket of bread—a big basket. It was impossible to know whether or not a piece was missing unless the man kept tabs on his stock after every transaction. Alfie knew he didn’t—he was much too disorderly. Neither the messy beard nor the stained shirt gave away the disorderliness. It was the fact that Alfie had watched the man during his most recent transaction a moment before, and no catalog had been made.

Regardless, the man pointed at the pile of bread as if it proved something (it didn't). The boy started to shake. Now, Alfie knew that the boy was, in fact, guilty. During the transaction—the one the man failed to record—the urchin swiped a piece of bread. It was a clean knick. He waited until the peddler was properly distracted with a customer, then made his move. Except the kid got caught: a passerby tattled to the bread peddler—a shame (the peddler still had time to record the transaction before he was notified of the theft, which, again, he didn’t).

Alfie resumed his stroll, and serendipity made him fall into the peddler after his cane slipped. It was also just happenstance that he fell right on the man’s arm, which held the urchin. The urchin darted away, the peddler screamed some more, and Alfie mumbled an apology. The man was about to strike at Alfie before he noticed the clothes. It was the peddler’s turn to mumble a half-hearted apology. Alfie brushed off his suit and continued his walk: tap, drag, step, drag, step, drag, tap.

Yes, Babjah’s streets were dirty, much like its people. It was a shame. Babjah was a historic city. The buildings, oh the buildings! They were simply magnificent. Domes for roofs, stone older than the Imperium for walls, and stains of vibrant dyes: red, orange, purple, and green, making the city pop with color. The dyes were harvested from the jungle long ago, and the ancient stone cutters and carpenters bled over the colors, wanting each structure unique in coloration. Then, the artisans were commissioned to create a pattern out of the tints on every foundation, wall, and roof. There were almost as many colors as there were archways. Not being outdone by the artists, the sculptures cut every archway with masterful precision, each carved to support the weight of four and five floors. The walls curved like the archways. Babjah had no straight lines—the buildings twisted into one another, flowing from street to street, merging and winding. The city was a rainbow. But it was built long ago, and the people are dirty.

Alfie stopped in front of a three-story building. It was smaller than its neighbors and designed to be glossed over. The building had faded, muted coloration, no unique patterns, and neglected shingles. Given the business inside, Alfie figured it was a fitting place.

Knocking on the door, Alfie checked his pocket watch. He was right on time—punctuality was a trait of a gentleman.

A gruff voice answered from inside. “Whatcha want?”

“I am the man with the meeting with your boss, whom I believe to be, if memory serves, Sololy Minip,” Alfie said. He put away his pocketwatch, leaning on his cane, staring at the curtain that led inside. It jolted open.

The man who stepped through could do with a steaming hot bath filled with perfume. Maybe two baths. “Would’cha lower ya voice? Finesse never a lousy thing.” He spoke with a lazy drawl.

Alfie stepped through the archway, brushing past the curtain. “What’s your name?” he asked, ignoring the comment.

“Hempin,” Hempin said.

“You of the Borbris, Hempin?”

“Aye, I su’pose ya can tell from me accent, eh?”

“Yes, I can. And I apologize for my lack of tactfulness earlier. Now,” Alfie clapped his hands together, rubbing them, “point me to Soloy, please.”

“You da Gentleman?” Hempin asked.

“That’s the name your organization will know me by.”

“Den I su’pose I should be takin’ ya to Soloy.”

“That’s what I also supposed, Hempin, hence the previous comment.”

“Mind ya manners, mind ya manners,” Hempin said, turning to walk up the stairs.

Alfie followed Hempin as he led him down a hallway and up the stairs to the third floor. They passed by several rooms filled with boxes and men carrying several to and from a cart, which, apparently, sat by the backdoor in the alleyway. Or at least, that was what Alfie thought. What kind of seedy organization didn’t have a backdoor? The minty smell of the boxes was almost enough to mask the scent of the men working. Hempin wasn’t the only one needing a bath.

A nondescript wooden door sat at the end of the third-floor hallway. It was made of pine, based on the look and the smell. It was the only part of the building switch that didn’t smell like musty, sweaty labor. Hempin knocked three times: tap, tap, tap.

“Enter,” came Sololy’s voice. It sounded like gravel.

Alfie entered the office after Hempin opened the door. It was small, cluttered, but neat. Papers laid on almost every surface, and a whiskey desk sat in the corner with liquor even Alfie would enjoy. There were no windows in the room, just burning candles, which needed to be changed. The smoke whisked out of the room through a hole in the ceiling. It seemed unwise to have all the paper drawn about and yet have wax pouring down, but it wasn't Alfie's office. A small desk sat near the back of the room, and behind the small desk sat a large man who smelled nice.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Sololy Minip wore a wavy beard, oily, slicked-back hair, and a quality but worn shirt and vest. A watch sat on his left hand, which was a nice watch—likely bought (or stolen) from the Merchant’s District at one of the Tinker Shops.

Alfie heard Hempin shut the door as he sat in the chair before Sololy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two cigars.

Alfie observed as Sololy examined the two cigars. They were well-made and expensive, straight from the Az Zubaid Barony. Alfie knew with certainty that Sololy recognized the Barony’s watermark: a sand serpent. He also knew that Soloy knew the law surrounding their distribution: Az Zubaid’s cigars were reserved for Great and Minor Houses. Possession of one could get a man thrown in jail and whipped, per the Emperor's decree. Without a word, Sololy reached into his desk’s drawer, pulling out a cutter and a light. Alfie cut both, passing one to Sololy before lighting his own.

“Why are you here?” Sololy asked.

“You received my letter. You know why I’m here.”

“No, that letter was a simple hello—very simple. Why are you here?”

“I hear you’re looking to sell drugs,” Alfie said after a puff.

“And I hear you are looking to distribute drugs,” Sololy responded, taking the first drag on his cigar. “Good stuff, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Alfie said. He waited a beat, taking another look around the office. You can tell a lot about a man based on his workspace; from what he can tell, Sololy was a man of the street.

“The Dendihm has been taking your juutcloud. Those great big blokes, well, they have fuck all to do after all that training. But, I got ways to make the Dendihm go away. I can tell them to fuck off. They fuck off. And you get your drugs all over this great city’s streets, and I get a cut of the drug that gets passed. Simple.”

Sololy leaned back in his chair. “And how you get the wops to crack elsewhere?”

“Money.”

“No, I don’t trust it. How do I know you wouldn’t sell me out to the Dendihm after you’ve made some profit? You’re an unknown. I’d give it twenty-to-one odds that you don’t even have a connection to make the Dendihm bounce.”

“I was in a skirmish in the Holytou as a lad. It was a brutal scrap; it’s where I killed my first man. I had a glory-damned lieutenant as a commanding officer—the type who’s out to prove himself with men’s lives to win Daddy’s respect. We didn’t trust him. He was arrogant, stupid, and selfish. But, to get promoted, he needed to hold the outpost while keeping ninety percent of us alive. It had something to do with the Legions only wanting competent men in command, which doesn’t make sense since he was in fucking command in the first place. But, he kept us held up behind the wall, hired mercenaries from his own pocket when he had word of the Yoors coming, and used them instead of us. Only two of us died that day, though most of the mercenaries did. You don’t have to trust a man—just his self-interest. It is in my self-interest not to turn you in. It’s in my self-interest to make sure your product has demand. It’s in my self-interest to keep you happy.”

“How is it in your self-interest to get into the Black Business?”

“Money and blackmail. I have ambitions, and I think juutcloud will help me achieve them. That is all I will say.” Alfie pulled another puff, watching the smoke curl into the ceiling’s hole.

“That still doesn’t answer the question about how you’ll get the juutcloud distributed without attracting fanatical bastards.”

“It’s the curious fish that eats the bait. A man has to keep some of his secrets. The good news is that your dealings with me stop when I buy your juutcloud. You do not have to worry about the distribution.”

Alfie watched as Sololy studied him. “What price will you pay for a barrel?” Sololy asked.

“Three crowns,” Alfie said, taking another puff of the watermarked cigar.

“Fuck off.”

“It’s fair.”

“I want six crowns,” Sololy said.

“Now you fuck off. That’s absurdly high. I might as well buy a Borbris tribe for that price per barrel. I’ll do three-and-a-half.”

“Five-and-a-half.”

“What are we doing? Playing board games? Baking a pie? Taking a stroll with grandmother? Quit tossing the ball and make a pitch. I’ll do no higher than four.”

“Five crowns then, which is barely proper compensation for the time and risk. We both need to eat and have a roof. It’s not fucking cheap hauling juutcloud out of the jungle into the city. That needs compensation as well. I cannot do lower than five. It wouldn’t be worth my time.”

“Fuck your pity play. I want four,” Alfie said.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“I didn’t realize I was walking around with a choir. I’ll do four-and-a-half and no higher.”

Alfie leaned back in his chair as Sololy closed his eyes and touched his forehead. Either he was thinking or annoyed. Either way, the response would be entertaining, which is its own reward. Dull conversations were awful.

After a moment, Sololy came out of his thoughts. “Fine, four-and-a-half,” he said with a pearly white smile—strange for a man like him to have such a nice smile.

“Then we have a deal,” Alfie said, mimicking the grin. “What is the largest amount of barrels available to buy right now? And I’m not talking about that minty shit downstairs, but the real thing.”

“Twenty-two barrels.”

“Done. I’ll send a runner over tomorrow with a cart and a hundred crowns. Consider the extra crown a tip. By the end of the month, I’d like to buy at least fifty barrels. Is that possible?”

Sololy thought for a second. “It should be. We haven’t invested in production because of the lack of distribution. If you can truly buy fifty barrels every month, it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“By all means, make it happen. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to sign a contract on this matter, but you have my word, one man to another, that if you supply fifty barrels a month, I will buy. For a show of good faith, I’ll also have my runner bring an additional one hundred and thirteen crowns as a deposit for next month's supply. Is that reasonable? ”

After a moment, Sololy said, “Aye, I suppose it is.”

“You’re an intelligent man, Sololy. You know how the Black Business is done. I won’t go into detail as to what would happen if you tried to cheat me.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Alfie grabbed his cane and stood up. “Very well. If you need to contact me, go to this address,” he said, placing a card on the desk. “Ask for the Guru. Now, if that is all, my runner will see you tomorrow in that back alley of yours. You do have a back alley, right?”

“What kind of operation would we be if we didn’t?”

“That’s what I thought. My runner will be there an hour past dawn during the rush. Good meeting you, Sololy, and here's too many profits for the both of us.” Alfie said, ashing his cigar and walking towards the door. However, his form wavered. A faint shimmer ran through him like a reflection in rippling water. Sololy’s eyes widened as Alfie’s outline fractured, bursting into motes of light. The motes hovered for a breathless moment before dissipating into the air, leaving the room silent and still. Sololy stared at the empty chair.

Somewhere in the city, the real Alfie smiled.