After recovering every last riva from the hands of the Crossfield owner, I finally returned to the slums.
Darkness had fallen over the makeshift shelters, sparing only the cramped room that served as my refuge.
Sitting on the edge of my cot, I counted the bills before carefully hiding them away.
My mind was made up: I had to plan my next moves with extreme caution.
If Déva Callis’s first test had already forced me to employ brute force, the next point on the picto-card promised to be far more dangerous.
I couldn’t afford a single misstep.
The Shadows weren’t looking for mere lackeys; they handpicked those capable of surviving the absolute worst.
And I realized, under the flickering glow of my lamp, that this test would definitely be no mere formality.
The following morning, the rays of a scorching sun were already beating down on the packed dirt.
My objective for the day was clear: gather as much information as possible about the orphanage indicated on the map.
Studying it more closely, I noticed that the building was located not far from one of the many branches of the Hunters’ League—a heavily monitored and highly specific sector.
Having no connections in this district and not knowing where to begin my investigation without raising suspicion, I decided to pay old Cassam a visit.
He was one of the few living memories of this slum, a man who saw everything and heard everything.
Upon seeing me cross the threshold of his shack, the old man stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locked behind my shoulder.
His surprise was evident when he realized I was alone.
“You’re very quiet today, Drey.
Where is little Lucas?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
At the mention of that name, an image flashed through my mind: Lucas, walking away the day before, his face defeated and his shoulders slumped, hurt by my detachment.
I brutally brushed the thought aside.
Feelings were a luxury I couldn’t afford if I wanted to see my vengeance through.
“He has things to take care of on his end,” I replied in a deliberately neutral tone.
“Tell me instead, Cassam…
If I needed to find a reliable informant in this wretched city, someone who knows the secrets of the northern district, where should I look?”
The old man drew on his pipe, letting a cloud of grey smoke float between us.
He sized me up for a long moment before sighing.
“If you’re looking for a proper informant, boy, there is only one place.
You must go to the Malbour market.
It’s a literal viper’s nest.
It’s within the heart of its twisted alleys that the cleverest thieves hide, but also the finest informants in Astra.
Furthermore, stay on your guard: down there, information is often bought with blood or secrets.”
Following the old man’s advice, I immediately set out for the Malbour market.
Upon my arrival, I was greeted by a wall of sound and stench.
The spectacle was constant, almost dizzying.
The wooden stalls of the shopkeepers overflowed with various goods, and vendors shouted at the top of their lungs to attract passersby, hounding customers who haggled over every single copper.
The atmosphere was filled with an unceasing racket: merchants crying out their prices, buyers complaining about poverty, and carts forcing their way through the dense crowd.
Fortunately for me, I knew from experience that this kind of chaotic, noisy environment was ideal.
In a crowd, tongues loosened more easily and eyes grew less suspicious.
I slipped through the masses, pretending to take an interest in trinkets while conversing with beggars and street vendors.
By cross-referencing testimonies left and right, one name kept coming up consistently.
Eventually, I was directed toward a dark, narrow alleyway, tucked away from the main merchant avenues.
That was where a bizarre informant named Louis Ponti regularly hung around.
I stepped into the alley without hesitation.
It was reasonably wide, apart from the general crowd, and while it wasn’t pitch black, it offered plenty of discreet alcoves to conceal the shady dealings of an informant.
Barely ten paces into the passageway, I spotted my target.
A man stood leaning against the stone wall at the very end of the dead end, a cigarette dangling from his lips, releasing trails of smoke.
His appearance was…
memorable, to say the least.
His clothes boasted a flashy style that clashed violently with the surrounding filth: he wore a garish yellow jacket, vertically striped trousers, and a hat I found frankly ridiculous.
The hat was far too small to hide his long, rebellious lock of hair framing his forehead, or the numerous freckles dotting his weathered face.
I approached with slow strides, my boots barely making a sound on the ground, and broke the silence:
“Good evening.
I’m looking for a man capable of giving me answers.
I was told he goes by the name of Ponti.”
The man took a long drag from his cigarette, looked me up and down with a hint of amusement, then smirked.
“Yes, that’s a name I’m familiar with…
It all depends on what you’re looking for, kid.
What kind of help could this famous Ponti possibly offer you?”
“I need precise information on an orphanage located near the city’s northern front,” I replied bluntly.
The stranger stopped smiling.
A heavy silence settled into the alley while he observed me, undoubtedly trying to read my intentions through my eyes.
Then, he straightened his posture and asked in a sharper tone:
“Yes, I know exactly which place you mean.
That’s a delicate matter.
So tell me…
what do you have to lay on the table to buy my services?”
Remaining perfectly calm, I plunged my hand into my jacket and pulled out a wad of bills, holding it before his eyes.
“Fifty riva.
I simply want the exact name of this orphanage and the identity of the person running it.
Nothing more.”
My expression was one of absolute firmness, my gaze locked onto his to make him understand I wasn’t there to play games.
The man stared at the bills, then at my face, before bursting into a loud laugh that echoed against the alley walls:
“Pfff…
Ha ha ha ha!
You know what, kid?
You’ve got guts, and I like your eyes.
Put your money away, I’ll help you out for free this time.
Forget your bills.
Instead, let’s make a pact: the day I need a favor or a hired hand, you’ll come help me out, no questions asked, alright?”
The offer was highly suspicious.
This man inspired absolutely zero trust and had the perfect face of a con artist looking to use me later.
However, my pragmatic side took over.
It was always useful to have an informant in your corner, especially a man bound to you by a promise.
Flashing a smile to mask my suspicion, I shook his hand firmly.
He then leaned toward me and began in a low voice:
“The orphanage you’re looking for is called Saint-Margasie.
Officially, the facility is run by a holy woman going by the name of Reverend Julian.
Except that’s a fake name: her true name is Luna.
She is a woman of breathtaking beauty, but if you intend to go down there, keep both eyes wide open.
The low-town rumors say that establishment has very close, very dark ties to the Eresboros organization.”
Hearing that name, a thrill of excitement mixed with contempt coursed through me.
I let out a faint internal chuckle before raising my head:
“Thanks for the advice.
I’ll make sure to be careful.”
As I turned to leave the dead end, the man called out behind me one last time, brimming with pride:
“Alright, safe travels, kid!
Oh…
and by the way, in case your brain hadn’t connected the dots yet, I am Louis Ponti.
The best informant in Malbour…
what am I saying, in the entire continent of Astra!
Furthermore, keep this to yourself—secrecy is part of the trade.”
While walking away, I suppressed a smirk.
I had found him profoundly stupid and vain from the very first seconds.
I had guessed he was the informant in question given his ridiculous clothes, but I preferred to let him believe he had surprised me.