Disregard Fantasy, Acquire Currency: 8 (Patreon)

A pale, red-haired woman stared at a wooden house just outside the noble quarter in the dead of night, peering out like she could see through the night as easily as a cat. Then, she slunk away into an alley. Her steps were quiet enough she could listen to all else that came anywhere nearby. At a certain point, she paused, looking all around. Then, she kicked a nearby brick. It made the top of a barrel pop upward. She removed the lid, then climbed down the ladder within it adroitly, covering the entrance again in her wake.

At the bottom was a confined, if surprisingly well-made, area. She walked through total darkness before pushing open a door. The moment she saw a man in bright green, she kneeled down.

“Glory to the sultan. Glory to the agha of the Janissaries,” she said quickly. “I have observed the house, Chorbaji Levent.”

“We’re far from both the sultan and the agha. Such formalities are unnecessary in this land. It would be unwise for a spy to say such a thing by habit, and show their hand,” Levent said. His voice was intoxicatingly smooth.

The woman didn’t look up. “I would never disrespect neither the sultan nor the agha, except if my task should dictate it. Even then, I would flagellate myself later to atone.”

She heard footsteps as the man came closer. “Qizilbash. You may look up.”

She did so, and saw a saber pointed at her eye held by a handsome man with tan skin and dark hair. From the blade’s surface, she could barely see the flickering mist of his rich green aura rising from his blade. Like herself, her Chorbaji had been trained in [Placeholder] Empire style. That was the unifying aspect of the janissaries, whether they were the spy corps or the personal guards of the sultan himself.

“I’m glad your training was sufficient.” He drew back his saber, and put it back inside its sheath. “Which Chorbaji trained you, Qizilbash?”

“Chorbaji Baran, sir.”

“He’s called Baran Ataman, now. The agha bestowed upon him his pension, and his surname, only last month.” Her commander squatted down, staring her eye-to-eye. “I respect his work, but little else compares to fieldwork in our business. We’ve spent a grand total of seven years setting up our roots here in Gent. The worst possible outcome of your transfer here is the destruction of all we constructed.”

“I understand, sir.” She lowered her head again.

“Let me be clear. You will receive no bonuses for exceptional performance. There are no promotions, no ways up. I understand all of this has been drilled into you during your ten-year training period, but it’s different now. Here, we prioritize the avoidance of mistakes rather than the pursuit of excellency. Follow orders, protect the sultanate, and do nothing more.” His gaze was as hard as steel. “You must be prepared to die for the sultan. Still, death raises questions—questions we’d very much like to avoid. So, I’d advise you try not to die… but if the time should come, be ready for it. To that end, we shall kill your name.”

Levent stood, drawing his saber once more. He placed it on her shoulder. “You are Qizilbash no longer. I name you Petronella. I expect you to familiarize yourself with the background story that we’ve written up for you. I believe you’ll have no difficulty fitting into this place. You have red hair, and pale skin—it does catch the eye, but such colors are common in the northern regions of this kingdom, while being virtually absent in our heartland, barring slaves.”

He drew back his blade from her shoulder. “That house I had you observe… it was recently purchased by Willem van Brugh. He’s the third son of Baron Tielman van Brugh, and has inherited the martial talent of his father. Until recently, our agents thought he hadn’t inherited the man’s incorruptibility. We were on the cusp of killing the baron… but at the last minute, Willem ‘accidentally’ ruined the Clatgrass used for the poisoning.” Levent shook his head.

“The baron is said to have already made a full recovery. In the chaos, Willem caused quite a stir, getting himself disinherited in exchange for an incredibly sizable payment. The barony is still weakened, yet the agha is exceptionally cautious of Baron Tielman. The baron has killed three other arrogant aghas before him, and once nearly hunted down the sultan on the field of battle. Your task, though, relates to the son alone.”

Petronella nodded, already using the new name in her head. “What am I to do?”

“We risk tipping our hand if we do anything more than observing. Ultimately, we’re merely investigating him to see if he learned anything of our network. We had intended to kill him in the chaos of the invasion after Tielman perished, but that plan is dead. Willem is the first person of interest in your tasks here. Despite being a newcomer, he seems quite close to the count, making repeated visits. You need to study him closely—how, I leave to you. It’ll help me figure out how you work before incorporating you into the rest of the team.”

“Is his life important to preserve?” she questioned, subtly questioning if he would need to be assassinated eventually.

“If he needed to be disposed of, I wouldn’t assign the task to you.” Levent smiled. “He’s killed two Chorbaji on the field of battle—veteran army commanders, too, not assassins like you and I. He’s an exceptionally talented aura user. Our strategists suspect that Baron Tielman was genuinely considering making him the successor had he gone through an education program from his old mentor to prepare him for it. Even unarmed, Willem could kill you with his bare hands.”

She shuddered. Everyone in the janissaries had heard the tales of Baron Tielman. If his son was half the warrior he was, she wouldn’t dare try her luck against him.

“Is he alert against us? Can I risk direct contact with him?”

“So far as we know, he’s utterly clueless about us. But the baron is alive, and he’s here. That means something. It’s up to you to figure out what.” Levent smiled.

#####

The newly-named Petronella had been watching Willem for some days. Despite her commander’s words of caution, she frankly didn’t make much of Willem’s ability. She had never once seen him with a weapon in hand. Some deviant fighters only fought bare-handed, but the central agency’s report on Willem indicated he fought with a sword.

He didn’t train. He didn’t exercise. He ate carefreely, often leaving himself rather exposed. He only brought his male attendant with him everywhere. He spent his days steadily hauling furniture down from the count’s estate to furnish his home. He certainly didn’t seem to be a man looking over his shoulder for the janissaries’ spy corps to come knocking.  

Still, she heeded the words of her superior and maintained a healthy level of vigilance. She couldn’t quite tell what he was doing. He had frequent discussions with Countess Anne Claire, widow of the former count. They met up in a large building that belonged to the county, often used for balls. They seemed to working on some renovations. She managed to learn a name—Society of Assured Prosperity—but nothing seemed to have been put into motion quite yet. Willem kept all of his paperwork in his office, but she wouldn’t dare break into the home of an aura user.

Eventually, though, she watched him and his male attendant veer away from the designated path. They mostly stayed around the port or the noble quarter, yet this time, they headed deep into the seedier areas of Gent, carrying a few implements. She followed after them eagerly.

They didn’t enter any homes, but Willem seemed to be looking for something. He spoke to a few people, asking them questions. It was all very inconsequential stuff—were you born here, how did you end up in the slums, et cetera. The people largely disregarded him, but Willem didn’t seem to be bothered. His attendant was, however.

Eventually, the attendant—whose name was Dirk, she discovered—took a stack of papers and a hammer, and began nailing sheets into locations in plain view. She was a little perplexed by this. After a few were posted, a vagrant yelled at them, and they moved on. Once she was sure they were sufficiently far away, she walked up to see what he’d done.

It was strange to hammer fliers in the slums. Perhaps one or two out of two hundred of them could actually read. Notices for charity would be better distributed, and received, vocally. The vagrant that had yelled at them tore a flier down and tossed it away. Petronella waited for an opportunity, then seized the discarded paper without anyone noticing. She read it carefully.

Would you like to stop being poor? I can help you.

Solve the following math problem, then use the number to go to the corresponding building number on Apple Street tomorrow at noon: 112% of 104, multiplied by 4, rounded to the nearest whole number.

Petronella stared at the paper, utterly flabbergasted. To begin with, the message on top was utterly ridiculous, and no sane person would post such an advertisement expecting to genuinely receive a response. Furthermore, the math, while not exactly scholarly, was far beyond what she’d expect of anyone living in this place.

A thought came to her, and she felt a chill. Could it be code? But code, posted so publicly… the idea was ridiculous. He could leave it somewhere the recipient would know it would be. As her mind wandered further, she considered a grim possibility.

It could be a message for her.

Why else would he post it so publicly? Why else would he do it in a place where few others would read it? The janissary spy corps were educated in basic arithmetic and seven different languages, to stay one step ahead of everyone here. He must’ve known that. But she rationalized—she had been careful, and Willem hadn’t shown signs of excessive wariness. If it wasn’t a message for her, it might be a message for someone else.

Regardless, tonight, she would report this to her Chorbaji. And inevitably, she was certain she would end up going to this meeting—either as an observer, or as the person he genuinely intended to reach. Somehow, instinct told her it was the latter.

#####

“I didn’t realize you were so narrow-minded, Dirk.” Willem shook his head as they walked back to their home. “Not everyone is poor because they’re lazy. Some are victims of circumstance. They just need to be given a chance. I’ll give them that chance, in collaboration with the church. And besides, I need a little more labor than you or me. We have to find the proverbial diamond in the rough.”

“That’s not…!” Dirk looked at Willem with a fiery expression, then took a deep breath. “You will not find someone who can both read that paper, and do that math, in that part of town. It won’t happen. They simply don’t exist. Those people are valuable, and they’ll be scooped up by any city administration. They could find employment anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong, Dirk. Wrong, and classist. I never thought I’d see such self-hatred. Those are your own people.” Willem shook his head. “Sometimes, unlucky circumstances make you poor. It has nothing to do with your intelligence or your education.”

Dirk stared at Willem. “I’ll bet you five gold that no one shows up.”

Willem locked gazes with Dirk. “Do you even have that money?”

“We’ll add it to my work contract,” Dirk said confidently. “Extended duration of labor.”

“Works for me.” Willem held out his hand. “Five gold.”

Dirk shook his hand. He’d never been more confident in a bet in his life. The cosmos could only bend so much for one person. No one would show up tomorrow, he was certain. The man had proven he wasn’t some deity after failing to get information from the church. And he would prove his naivete again.
#####
Not quite satisfied with the previous chapter. I intend to rewrite it-- either trimming it heavily and combining it with this one, or making something that has more of Countess Anne Claire. The church needs a better introduction, because it's going to be a heavy stabilizing force in the story.

Additionally, the name of janissaries and most of the characters isn't final, but the inspiration behind all of it is going to remain the same. It'll be a large parallel to the Ottoman Empire. I'm hesitant to be so blatant with the parallel because I don't want to deal with Turkish nationalists in the comments correcting every little thing. For now, tremble in fear of the great [Placeholder] Empire.