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he left the core of London behind, and headed east, deeper into the old quarters of the city, where the buildings were shorter, pressed more tightly together, and on the drab end of the grand spectrum. He kept his hood low but his gaze up, and with every corner and bend, his eyes wandered the buildings, looking for something in particular.
    There are many different ways to acquire power in a city. It can be bought with coin or squeezed from the people by birthright and votes. It can be honestly built, and it can be nefariously claimed. And in a city, these forces are most often concentrated at a location. The House was the seat of political power, for instance. The docks bowed to coin and trade and gambling. Kensing Town sported its proud and upright businesses. In Cheapside, however, the currency was crime, and all it took was the wrong shortcut or the wrong tavern to find yourself in the middle of a transaction.
    Merion knew this all too well. His father and his old butler had lectured him many a time on the dangers of London. But he was not blithely ignoring his teachings; irritatingly, he had taken the wrong street and missed the thoroughfare he could remember rattling down with his father. None of the paths seemed to lead him where he wanted. With evening slowly falling, he was growing anxious. Every now and again, his hand would surreptitiously pat his pocket.
    There! His eyes spied a sign bearing a hand-painted pig’s head, and behind it, one with a garish trout. A butcher and a fishmonger, side by side and occupying the same doorway. They would have to do. Merion set a course straight for them.
    As he put a hand to the wide door, and heard the bell above him ring, he was struck with the stench of fish and the iron tang of bloody meat. Four men stood behind the combined counter. Each of them seemed to be rather lacking in the neck department. Their shoulders were so muscled they had apparently fused with their heads. Their hair was short and their faces impassive. They were all a good foot taller than Merion, and to put it frankly, didn’t look one bit like butchers or fishmongers. They looked more used to breaking people’s necks for a living. Merion wondered if he had indeed chosen the wrong tavern.
    ‘Hello,’ he began, immediately hating himself for how his voice cracked. He tried to slip a little coarseness into his accent. ‘I need some fish, and some offal. His lordship is throwing a special banquet. Wants to try some of those Francian delicacies, see.’ He chuckled slightly.
    Not one of them moved. Merion was about to repeat himself, or perhaps do the right thing and walk out, when the blank face of the nearest fishmonger cracked into a wide smile, full of teeth. He clapped his hands and laughed.
    ‘Then you have come to the right place, little man!’ he replied cheerily, in a thick, burbling accent that Merion had not heard before. The others followed suit, laughing and grinning, beaming at him. Merion tried not to appear too perturbed by the sudden enthusiasm, and smiled politely. He kept his hood up, however, and his hand on his pocket once more. The ship’s captain had gifted both he and Calidae with a bag of coin at the mouth of the Thames. Because of pity or orders, Merion hadn’t been able to tell; but he and Calidae had taken them nonetheless. To put it bluntly, they were both reasonably flush for the time being. Merion knew the importance of keeping that quiet.
    ‘What fish you like, little man?’ asked the other fishmonger, waving a hand over the wares trapped behind a glass counter. All sorts of sea-life sat there, goggle-eyed and shiny, lying atop piles of pale ice. Merion rubbed his hands and reeled off a list he had been working on for several days now.
    ‘Carp, whole. Moray Eel, also whole if you’ve got it. Any squid, perhaps? No? Alright. Maybe some tuna? Great. A head if you have it. Lobster? Only a small one? That’ll do, I think.’
    The two men went to work, digging in