The piece of paper he still held in the palm of his hand was now soaked through with sweat, a thin line of it also gathering miserably upon his brow. Valerio had to resist the urge to wipe it away with his sleeve, bound to a peculiar belief that it would somehow translate as a sign of weakness. But for one so old as Mark, it did not take the perspiration on one’s forehead, nor the overall disquiet that gripped the young man, to gather that he was feeling ill at ease. This state of unspoken turmoil seemed to please him, the intensity of his eyes growing like a feline’s on the verge of pouncing on unsuspecting prey.
“You know what it is that I do, yes?” the old voice spoke with barely a trace of emotion, and so exact that a politician might confuse him for one of their own.
“Ah, yes. I-I believe so.” Valerio had to swallow several times to remove the dry taste from the back of his throat.
“Then tell me.”
There was hesitation at first, likely a product of fractured nerves filling his mind with doubt, but he pressured on. “You lend people money,” he said quietly. “No more than they can pay back, as I understand it. But those that don’t pay have met...unsavory ends.” The light in the room seemed to momentarily shift. An errant breeze perhaps. “All hearsay, of course,” he concluded with urgency, finding the taste of diplomacy strange on his tongue.
Mark’s papery thin lips shrank as he sat back in his chair, hands following him and coming to rest within his lap. Every movement he made was slow, and felt in some way calculated, eyes never straying for more than a moment from his guest. It cut through Valerio and spread like a root within his chest. It was fear, surely, but carried along with it something else. Something just as primal. The thief adjusted in his seat, and wished the uncomfortable silence would already end.
“Can you think of why I might have requested your presence here?”
Was this all a test? Obviously the loaner had his own reasoning, which was likely far more elaborate than anything Valerio’s bungling mind could concoct. But there was no dialogue between them. No tells, no auspices. The conversation was pointed directly at him, and it felt like a dagger hovering dangerously above one’s throat. He swallowed again. “To serve some purpose of yours surely,” he said with just an edge of irritation attached. “But you would not summon me here if it did not benefit me as well,” his brow raising slowly.
The old man offered the slightest nod, instilling the other with some small shred of confidence to continue. “I believe you know what it is that I do. How you know this, I can only guess. Likely a few walls with ears and a few windows with eyes, neh?”
Valerio paused, but only because Mark’s silent reaction and curling lip was the most he had gotten from him since stepping into his office. “But knowing what a ‘jacker does and how he does it are two separate issues. You are unsure whether I lack the proper skill.”
Mark cut him off with a simple glance. “I know you possess the skill. It is your desire for the matter at hand, and your willingness to do what I ask without question that I have brought you here tonight.”
“You haven’t asked me to do anything yet,” he spoke with a puzzling look. “All you’ve done is request my...presence.” The pieces fit smoothly together, features falling silent. “I wasn’t the only one you sent a missive to, was I?”
The sleeves from Mark’s shirt shifted slightly. A shrug if there ever was one to be gleaned from such an enigmatic creature. “A scrap of paper with a location and a bell. That was all I delivered. Do not see it as mindless servitude. Appreciate it as an opportunistic spirit. You want something in life, do you not? You are willing to go to great lengths to get it. I can provide the means of getting you there. All I ask is for a bit of your time and talent.”
“You hurt people. Sometimes good people,” Valerio found himself saying, though he knew there existed an answer to such naivety already.
“They leave here knowing the full extent of their consequence, young sir. Are others so kind? But mark my words now, lest you regret your actions later. I will not tolerate another insult to my business. Understand?”
There was no threatening gesture, no darkening of demeanor. Simple words, cut from a sheet of ice that left a brand upon the thief’s tongue he no longer wished to taste. He nodded curtly, finding his fingers crushing the piece of parchment held in his hand.
“Good. Then also understand this. I am not employing you to hurt others. On the contrary. I only ask you to be a messenger.”
“A messenger of what?” Valerio asked, caution riddling his voice.
“It does not always pay to use force in this line of work,” Mark stated matter-of-factly. “At times a lighter touch is all that is required, and the reward is more beneficial to both involved. Fear is a powerful tool if used correctly. I simply ask you to inspire it in our clientele.”
“But not through violence...” The younger man’s lips twist sideways, teeth nibbling along his bottom lip.
From a drawer behind his desk, Mark removed two objects, one far more dense than the other. He placed each atop the sturdy dark wood surface between them with little formality, one beside the next, and slid them both across to where Valerio might retrieve them. A small but heavy knife sat next to a piece of parchment, far more elaborate than the scrap he held in his own hand. Written on it was a simple message, penmanship tidy and well composed. The thief found himself not wishing to lean over to read it just yet. Not until he had made up his mind.
“There is a homestead a few blocks from here, next to a smokehouse,” Mark continued as he reordered himself. “It shouldn’t give you too much trouble, but I’d like for the task to be completed by tomorrow evening. Simply attach this note with this knife to the dresser you’ll find in the bedroom on the second floor. Up the stairwell and second door on the right, I believe. It should go without saying that no one should ever be keen to your presence there at any given point until you are well away.”
Valerio’s brow furrowed doubtfully, but knew that any questions would further turn the conversation away from its intended goal. His hand reached across the table and collected both items, first the piece of parchment, then the knife. “That’s all?”
“There is an item atop the dresser that I must also request you acquire. A small broach. You could sell it to a fence for a modest turn of coin, but I promise that handing it over to me will be far more lucrative to your endeavors. Is that simple enough?” Moving a varicose hand to his right across the desk, Mark removed a quill from a small silver stand, pulling a piece of parchment along with it to rest before him.
“What is the broach is not there?” Valerio’s fingers tapped ponderously across his knee, wondering if questions would truly get him anywhere with his apparent employer.
“If it is not there, then I suggest you do a bit of searching. You will recognize it when you find it. I imagine gold does not pass your sight so easily. But I am rather certain it shall be there...Do you have any more questions?” Mark’s voice was audibly growing more tired.
“Only one,” Valerio’s eyes narrowed, sure that if he did not ask, he would be doubting his every move from here on out. Doubt which would likely get him caught or worse.
“Hmm?” The older man was beginning to wet the tip of the quill from a vial of ink he’d procured from another drawer, eyes now cast down to the parchment and seeming to pay the thief of little mind.
“What is the price of failure?” Valerio froze, wanting to make sure he understood every word that came next.
“The price of failure, depending on the severity, is anywhere from simple dismissal, to a rather macabre practice I take no pleasure in. But of that, a rather prodigious amount of betrayal on your part would need be achieved. Have you an interest in…”ratting me out” as your ilk call it?” He paused long enough to look up to his business associate who was beginning to stand, both items still clutched in his hands.
Valerio offered but the grimmest of expressions, lips pursed, jaw clenched, and eyes dark. “I’m no turncoat,” he growled, more for the taste of the word on his lips than any accusation the other might have made. “That’s not East Street.”
“Of course it isn’t, which is why I have all the faith in the world you’ll be efficacious in the task I have set before you. Whatever you believe in, may it grant you haste and good will.” A smile. A true smile, macabre though it was, graced his lips.
Valerio breathed deeply of the room, noticing for the first time it smelled faintly of varnish and rose petals. Strange, he mused while turning to let himself out, the door clicking behind him with an echo that followed him up the stairwell and back onto familiar streets. A shiver tore down his spine. |
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