Grimar shrugged in the rougher, but easier to clean, wool cloth he was wearing. It was uncomfortable, itchy, and stiff to wear, but it beat getting his normal clothes sullied. He flexed his Mantle carefully, the obsidian powder moving, shaping the clay along with it.

Good enough. He thought, stepping away from the huge mixing bowl. With his power he continued mixing the material, making sure there was an even spread of obsidian all throughout the clay.

While obsidian wasn’t a good building material, too brittle and sharp, it did work well when combined with clay to make ceiling tiles. It wasn’t a perfect solution, as that would’ve required Grimar to be elsewhere, preferably tasting a special crafted beer or tea, but it would do.

Picking up the cloth that he’d left next to the bowl, he wiped his hands off. Trying to get all the clay out of his fingers and every crevice was an exercise in futility without a bath, so this would have to do.

“Thank you so much for your help, sir.” Grimar looked up to see a commoner, bowing at the hip. “You’ve been a great help, sir.”

The man was older, maybe in his late fifties. He had a rough voice that spoke of trials. His hands were rough, the scars around his forearms and fingers spoke not just of hard work, but life threatening work.

After Grimar had left the academy, he’d found himself enjoying being called ‘lord’ again, but ‘sir’ fit better from this man.

“Rise.” Grimar bid him, as he finished wiping the worst clay off. “It’s no issue. We are just trying to do what we can. Helping out those in need.” As he spoke, he transferred the obsidian suffused clay into molds that would help him shape the tiles. “These are about ready for the kilns.”

“Sir, you’ve done the work of ten men, there must be something we can offer you.” The ex-soldier said.

Ten men? Grimar had to stifle a scoff at the man’s comment. “As the heir of Serpent-vein, I need for nothing.” Grimar replied with a smile. “That I can offer you help is all I need.”

“Then I must thank you again, sir.” The man bowed again, much deeper this time and Grimar thought he heard a quiet moan of pain.

Before he could say anything, a carriage pulled around the corner. It held a layer of fresh paint, and had clearly been cleaned recently, despite the mud that had been sprayed against it. The metal embellishments were too polished and the lacquer too evident. A serpent lay across the doors of it, made out in white against a blue backdrop. A single drop of red emerged from the serpent. Varumgándr the world-eating serpent.

“It seems my uncle is calling for me.” Grimar said.

“You have other places to be, sir. We thank you for any time you can spare.”

Grimar smiled before walking over to the carriage. With every step he fought against the muck and mud that filled the street. The cobblestones were long gone, if they’d even been laid in the first place. Most of the houses were rundown, cracks in the walls, and holes in the roofs.

Though some were looking at lot better than they had this morning. All around him workers in the livery of Serpent-vein, a single red drop on their otherwise bland and uncolored uniforms, milled about. Houses were currently having new roof tiles places, their walls were getting a new treatment, new shutters in the windows, new doors. They were getting little repairs and treatments.

The locals, the very people whose houses they were fixing up, were also helping. Grimar had to admit that if anything, they were taking a larger burden of the work. He was a little surprised at their dedication and work ethic. A part of him wanted to dismiss them all as peasants and commoners, mucking about in their own filth, but when given the resources required and they’d put in the time and done a lot of work.

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“You look like you’ve gone native.” His uncle said, as he opened the door to the carriage.

Grimar quirked a brow but didn’t reply, instead stepping up on the first rung of the carriage, before shunting all the mud off his legs, using the obsidian within as grip. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than simply stepping inside and letting it dry and fall off him. Like with the clay there was still residue that wouldn’t come off until a deeper scrubbing.

“Uncle.” Grimar greeted, as he finally stepped inside. The carriage was longer than it was tall, with benches on either side. While the interior was richly dressed, it wasn’t so overstuffed as to inhibit movement, should they suffer an ambush.

“Good evening, nephew.” Leif Serpent-Vein was dressed as only a noble could. Fine worked borders on his tunic and pants in silver thread instead of white. The blue cloth made of some exotic material Grimar wasn’t too familiar with, silk or the like, probably from down in Sankur or Vargish, if he were to guess. “I take it things are going well.”

Grimar quirked an eyebrow as he looked out the carriage window. “You tell me. What do you think they’re going to be talking about in the future?”

His uncle waved a hand. “Point taken.”

“What about you, uncle?”

“Could be better.” Then Leif cracked a smile. “But not much. I had to stop half a dozen of Inga’s agents trying to sow chaos. She’s so busy playing her games that she’s going to ruin it for everyone else.”

Grimar snorted a laugh. “What about Kurri’s Eye?”

Leif’s face returned to neutral. “They’re more careful, picking their targets well.” He winked at his nephew. “Which serves us just fine, for now.”

“We haven’t moved then?”

“Other than sabotaging a few of our competitors? No, we’re still scouting, looking for the right targets, measuring patrols. I don’t know if you heard, but there was a big upset. And there’s been some shuffling in the infrastructure.”

Grimar leaned back in his seat. Momentarily, he fought the frown forming on his face before he relaxed his guard. If he couldn’t show his skepticism and thoughts around his uncle, then where could he show it? The man had proclaimed him as his heir, and had trained him for the position for a long time. If he hadn’t become a tethered, he might’ve actually been able to follow all of his uncle’s planning.

Instead, he’d spent years of his life training for war.

“You’re worried.” Leif said. “Let it out.”

Grimar looked up. “I follow the points of letting Kurri’s Eye and the Masters spread their rumors, but are we sure it’s for the best? What if they got too much of a foothold?”

“That’s why we have you out here.” Leif said. “You’re too close to this, tomorrow you’ll have some distance from it all and see it much clearer.” The older man smiled.

Grimar looked out the window again. They’d long since passed by the houses he’d helped. In fact, you couldn’t tell the Serpent-Vein House had been working at all from where he was sitting. “Are you sure it’s enough? That our reputation won’t fall along with the rest?”

“Actions speak louder than words, Grimar.” Leif said reassuringly. “Kurri’s Eye can say what they want about nobles, but can they say we aren’t helping people?” He smiled then. “The Masters’ Council was always going to try and put politic in the academy, it’s been coming for some time now. We can turn it around, use it to our benefit. Now, put your head out of it, tomorrow you’ll see clearer.”

Grimar nodded, sensing their carriage moving past another person by the obsidian in the mud on his shoes. He shuffled to the side, moving so Leif sat opposite him. Moments later, that person jumped onto the carriage and slipped inside.

A small man, with an unshaven face slipped into the seat where Grimar had been sitting, dragging mud in with him. He had a sour face that always reminded Grimar of a rat. He could pass for mid-twenties to mid-thirties depending on how he’d tamed his beard. On his worn and torn jacket lapel sat a tin pin of an eye, standing out for how clean and neat it was on his dirty clothes.

“This sure is nice.” The infiltrator said, as he settled in, smacking his dirty shoes up on the opposite bench. Grimar’s lips puckered, turning his gaze to Leif as if to ask if this was necessary.

His uncle didn’t acknowledge his actions, instead kept his focus on his agent. “I have a target for you.” He handed the man a small notebook. “This is what we currently know of the clinic, though due to today’s changes we require further information. Patrol schedules, both Masters and fifth years, when’s the busiest time in the square, most likely taverns or bars to harbor dissent.”

“I get it.” The rat faced man perused the notebook briefly, before slipping it into his jacket pocket. “This isn’t a lot of information to work on.”

“Gather what information you need, then make your move.” Leif said, tapping once against the wall behind with a knuckle. “I expect a report of your success within the month.”

The carriage slowed down, seemingly carefully negotiating a bit of slippery terrain. The man cracked the door open and slipped out, disappearing into a dark alleyway that just so happened to be right in front of the door. Moments later, the carriage found ground and once more gained speed.

“Are you sure he’s reliable?”

“As reliable as you, my dear nephew.”

Grimar didn’t know if Leif’s self assurance was worrying or comforting. All he did know was that he’d been too long from the games of politics. He no longer had the nerve for it.