Chapter 15

The boy standing there tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the speaker. The corner of his mouth seemed to lift, or perhaps it hadn't. "It's too early to use that word.

There are plenty of things on these seas that truly deserve it.

Us? We're just children."

No one dared answer.

Only heavy breathing and the sound of waves slapping the hull filled the deck.

One could steal their weapons without a sound, and the other could make them collapse with a look-"children" like these

, who could believe it?

"Let's look at the cargo."

The boy ignored them, turned toward the wooden crate someone had been sitting on, and picked up the iron crowbar from the ground. He ** the gap beneath the lid and heaved.

With a screech of nails pulling free, the lid came off, revealing grayish-white rocks inside.

Wesker drew a deep breath, ** himself to turn his attention back to business.

He adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose and stepped forward.

First, he crouched and tapped the ore with his knuckles, listening to its dull sound.

Then he took a magnifying lens from inside his coat and leaned close to study the stone's grain and color.

Finally, he scraped a little powder from the edge of the ore with a fingernail, carefully dabbed it onto his fingertip, and touched it to his tongue.

Slightly astringent, with a distinctive metallic tang.

He straightened and wiped his fingers.

"It's sake iron ore."

His voice had regained its usual steadiness. "The quality is decent.

If the whole shipload is this grade, I'll take it all."

The sea breeze rose again, carrying a salty tang and dispersing the lingering sense of suffocation on deck.

But the kneeling men had yet to rise. Their shadows stretched long across the planks, trembling faintly.

The merchant held up two fingers.

"Twenty million Beli."

As the words fell, the breathing of the sunglasses-wearing attendants behind him noticeably quickened for an instant.

Behind their sunglasses, their gazes focused on those two fingers, then quickly shifted away.

They were paid to do a job. Their client's business had nothing to do with them.

Reputation mattered in this line of work. Getting greedy meant destroying their own livelihood.

The boy standing before the crate merely smiled.

Wesker's Adam's apple bobbed.

The muscles in his cheeks twitched uncontrollably.

"Twenty-five million."

The boy remained silent.

Wesker suddenly sighed, his tense shoulders relaxing instead. "Twenty-eight-"

"No need."

The boy cut him off.

"Twenty-five million it is."

He said, "Mr. Wesker, this won't be our last transaction."

For a first deal, they were already lucky not to have been beaten down to an absurd price.

The boy had privately asked around about prices. This shipload of ore was worth more than that.

But he and his companion were only two children. They lacked the means to sell it at market price.

They could frighten a merchant who valued his life, but they might not be able to cow desperate outlaws.

If they dragged things out and their true circumstances leaked, the various powers would devour them until not even their bones remained.

A hand extended toward him.

Wesker paused before taking it.

"A pleasure doing business."

He was clearly only a half-grown child, yet he spoke and acted like an old hand who had spent more than a decade at sea.

A thought surfaced in Wesker's mind: This kid might really amount to something someday.

The Goblet and Bell Inn stood at the border between the dump and the market.

Its frontage was nothing grand, but the interior was kept clean.

The bathroom door creaked open.

The boy had a towel wrapped around his waist and held a damp cloth to dry his hair.

Water slid down his neck and across his chest, which was covered in old scars of varying depths-knife wounds, bullet scars, burns, and lash marks crisscrossed like a faded map.

Food covered the round table in the sitting room.

The blond boy in sunglasses sat at the table, idly flicking the hammer of the Flintlock Pistol.

"Why aren't you eating?"

The boy drying his hair asked.

The boy in sunglasses tilted his head.

"Waiting for you."

What was there to wait for?

It wasn't like before, when they'd been chased into hiding in piles of garbage and had to split even a piece of moldy bread.

The body reflected in the mirror made even Rossi's own breath catch.

Those marks told of the past. Even with his present mind, a glimpse still sent a chill climbing up his spine.

What humans could inflict often left the deepest marks.

"Let's eat."

He sat down and picked up his knife and fork.

Only then did Doffy put the gun beside the table and grab food to stuff into his mouth.

Amid the sounds of chewing, both boys kept their weapons within reach.

"We need to find some people."

Rossi cut into the meat on his plate.

The two of them alone could get the Pinta moving, but it took too much time.

A few essential roles passed through his mind: someone who understood the sea, someone who could treat wounds, and someone who could warm their stomachs.

Their forces needed to grow, but their fists could not afford to weaken either.

On these seas, the truly strong could face entire armies alone-so neither could be neglected.

"Find people?"

Doffy knitted his brows, the crunch of shrimp shells between his teeth especially clear.

He shook his head.

"I don't trust anyone."

Past betrayals were like rusty nails still embedded in his memory.

Rossi gulped down some liquor, washing down his mouthful of food, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Don't be so quick to say that.

We'll meet people we can stand beside."

He set down his cup. "If we want to earn Beli, shipping is the fastest way.

You've seen those islands, right? Across a stretch of water, something ordinary here can fetch an astronomical price there.

That's why merchant ships have never stopped sailing, and why there are more and more pirates."

He paused and lowered his voice. "But what's in those black barrels aboard the ship is the key.

The earnings from the sake iron ore are just small change to pay the sailors.

What's really valuable is the cargo the captains smuggle-a single barrel can fetch several million Beli.

And we still have over a dozen barrels in our hold."

He would not sell that black powder.

Their guns and cannons needed it.

Until they found more companions, it was their most immediate means of support.

"So we have to find people, Doffy."

The food was swept clean.

Rossi changed into a dark hooded jacket, the clothing, now considerably heavier, stretching taut across his shoulders.

He tucked a short weapon into the back of his waistband. The fabric fell over it, hiding the cold gleam of metal.

Two figures broke up the light at the alley entrance, casting long, thin shadows.

Rossi tapped his fingers against his trouser seam. There was no sound, but the flow of air changed-it was too quiet. Even the distant calls of dockworkers sounded muffled by thick cloth.

He turned his head, scanning the bustling crowd behind him from the corner of his eye. A few evasive figures clung to the edges of his vision like stains he couldn't shake off.

Doffy's stride remained unchanged; only the force of his soles scraping the stone paving grew a little heavier.

Years of wandering and hardship had taught them one thing: the feeling of eyes on the backs of their necks was as distinct as hunger.

They exchanged a glance without stopping, then turned together at the next fork and slipped into a narrow gap between two brick buildings.

Disordered footsteps pursued them, accompanied by heavy breathing and the dull clinking of metal.

Several men rushed into the alley. Their leader had a scar across his face, and his eyes swept from side to side-empty.

There was only the damp smell of mold and the sound of dirty water dripping from above.

"They got away?"

A skinny man spat.

"Watch the docks,"

the scar-faced man said quietly. "Their ship's there. They'll come back sooner or later."

They turned to leave, only to freeze in unison.

At some point, the alley entrance had been blocked.

Two blond boys stood against the light. They weren't tall, but their shadows stretched so far they almost reached the men's feet.

Doffy took half a step forward, splashing the water pooled between the paving stones.

"Who sent you?"

Rossi spoke.

His voice wasn't loud, yet the echoes in the alley suddenly vanished. Even the dripping water seemed to have been swallowed by something.

The thugs froze for an instant.

The scar-faced leader abruptly drew the ** at his waist, its blade reflecting a cold gleam in the dim light. "Cheap tricks!"

He spat. "A couple of brats who haven't even grown hair yet dare block our way?"

The air stood still for a moment.

Doffy suddenly smiled, with little warmth in it.

He raised his right hand, spreading his fingers slightly toward the weathered brick wall on one side of the alley.

A few flaking fragments on the wall suddenly began to tremble, then slowly floated up as though tugged by invisible strings.

"Answer his question."

Doffy spoke.

The ferocity on the men's faces froze, slowly turning into alarm and uncertainty.

They had seen fights and **, had seen flashing blades and bloodshed, but they had never seen anything like this.

The skinny man backed away, caught his heel on a protruding stone, and stumbled.

The scar-faced man's Adam's apple bobbed. His hand tightened around his knife, then loosened.

He remembered Torre's grim face when he'd given his orders, then looked at the two children before him-no, they didn't seem like children.

He had only ever seen eyes like those on desperate outlaws.

"We... were just following orders,"

the scar-faced man said, his voice turning dry. "Boss Torre told us to watch whoever came off the Pinta."

Rossi nodded as though he had expected it.

He stepped forward through the standing water and stopped only two or three feet from the blade.

The alley was so quiet that the other man's quickening heartbeat could be heard.

"Who's Torre?"

He asked.

"He's... in charge of the docks around here,"

the scar-faced man answered involuntarily. Only after speaking did he realize he had given himself away, and his expression grew uglier. "You've crossed someone you shouldn't have.

Mr. Wesker's goods aren't so easy to take."

Doffy's fingers curled inward, and the floating brick fragments pattered back onto the ground.

He tilted his head, blond hair sliding across his temple. "So Wesker couldn't wait?"

No one answered.

But silence was already an answer.

Rossi turned and patted Doffy's shoulder. "Let's go,"

he said. "Time to head back to the ship."

They walked past the rigid men, their shoulders almost brushing the men's arms.

No one dared move.

Only after the two boys' figures vanished into the light at the alley's mouth did the scar-faced man let out a great, ragged breath. Cold sweat had already soaked through the back of his clothes.

The skinny man asked, trembling, "Boss, what do we do?"

The scar-faced man stared at the empty mouth of the alley. Only after a long while did he force a sentence through his teeth: "...Go back and tell Torre.

"There's something freaky about this."

The wind at Pier 3 carried the briny smell of the sea and the scent of wood shavings.

The Pinta looked shabby but sturdy in the slanting afternoon light. The clang of a carpenter's hammer came from the deck, steady and dull.

Rossi and Doffy walked back along the pier at an unhurried pace.

In the distance, a few figures crouching beside cargo crates glanced their way, then quickly looked away.

"Looks like we won't be sleeping easy tonight."

Doffy spoke.

"We never have."

Rossi answered.

He kept his hand in his coat pocket, his fingertips rubbing a few cold coins.

Silence enveloped him, filtering every distant sound into a muffled backdrop-only the heartbeats remained piercingly clear: his own, Doffy's, and the rapid, erratic heartbeats of those hiding in the shadows.

He looked up at the sky.

Clouds were gathering. The weather might be about to turn.

Several figures blocked the light at the alley's mouth.

The man in the lead spat, his gaze sweeping over the two boys in the alley-before finally settling on the face of the more slightly built one on the left.

"You took down trash like Tony, and now you think you can throw your weight around?"

He closed in with a few strides, reached out, and grabbed the boy's clothes, yanking downward.

Amid the rustle of fabric, another hand had already seized his collar.

The two of them, one big and one small, stood deadlocked, each pulling at the other's collar. The sight was a little ridiculous.

The grown man stood more than two heads taller than the boy opposite him, but the boy's fingers gripped so tightly that his knuckles had gone bluish white.

Then-

The boy suddenly bent his knees and twisted at the waist, his whole body like a fully drawn bow.

It was neither a push nor a slam.

He used the other man's forward momentum to send the full force of that rush right back at him.