# Chapter 4: The Crystal Trail

The courtyard behind the chandler's shop was cold enough that my breath hung in the air like punctuation. Leon was already there when I arrived — early, for once, which told me he'd been awake for a while. He was sitting on the low wall where we usually warmed up, not moving, just watching the frost melt on the flagstones.

No fire today. No sparring. I'd sent word last night: we need to talk about pre-Compact architecture.

"Morning," I said.

"You skipped training yesterday."

"Case."

"I figured." He shifted on the wall, making room. "You said pre-Compact. That's not a casual breakfast topic."

It wasn't. I sat next to him and laid it out — all three sites, the signature characteristics, the routing methodology that didn't match anything in current practice. Deeper-set anchoring. Irregular node spacing. Outbound extraction pathways all pointing northeast. The same instrument at every site, doing all the work — no operator fingerprint, just the tool's own architecture stamped into the residue like a maker's mark.

Leon listened without interrupting, which was unusual for him. His version of my noise normally had him jumping in with connections by the third sentence. Instead he sat very still, and his face did something I'd seen exactly twice before — once when he'd cracked a ward sequence that should have killed him, and once when I'd told him about the Floundry curse.

Recognition.

"That sounds like a Mallory focusing crystal," he said.

(*Mallory — pre-Compact artificer family, specialised in life-force augmentation tools, banned after the Compact formed, surviving pieces scattered across tombs and private collections — Leon would know, he's pulled three of their pieces out of ruins —*)

"You're sure?"

"The node spacing. Mallory crystals use irregular placement because they route through biological channels, not geometric ones. Modern practice abandoned that because the Compact standardised node grids for compliance testing." He was speaking carefully, like someone picking through rubble. "The deeper anchoring is because life-force workings need to hook into the target's baseline — surface anchors slide off. And the northeast vector — that's the outbound channel. The crystal routes extracted energy to a collection point."

He'd stopped talking. The technical explanation had run out of momentum, and what was left underneath it was something else entirely.

"The Vethani crystal," I said. Because I already knew where this was going.

"Yeah." He was looking at the frost again. "The one I sold to Harren six months ago. If you remember — purpose-built for life-force extraction, original Mallory inscription." A pause. "Twelve hundred silvers."

I remembered. A good recovery, a clean sale, the kind of job that justified the risks. I'd had questions about the buyer at the time — I always had questions — but Leon's business was Leon's business, and I'd never found a reason to make it mine. That policy had worked for years. It had stopped working about thirty seconds ago.

"Phelan." His voice was flat — the calm delivery that meant the emotions were cycling too fast to land. "That's the same crystal. The signature you're describing — that's my crystal."

The frost on the flagstones was almost gone. Neither of us looked at it.

"My father got attacked between towns," he said. "Healers aren't cheap."

(*His father — the D'Nardis name means minor nobility, provincial governance, carriages on roads where bandits operate — and Leon, the black-sheep son who won't come home for dinner but will sell a pre-Compact artifact at a third of its value when the old man needs a healer — that's not greed, that's the opposite of greed, that's a man who ran out of options and picked the fast one —*)

I'd noticed the price at the time. Twelve hundred for a Mallory original was low — insultingly low, if you knew what they were worth. The deal was done. Leon had his reasons. I didn't need to know them. Now I did, and the only thing that had changed was that the clean sale had a body count.

"The vendor," I said. "Still in Drenwick?"

Leon looked at me, and whatever had been sitting behind his eyes for the last thirty seconds got packed away — not gone, just boxed, the way Leon handled everything that threatened to slow him down. Fast emotional cycling. Process and move on. Except this time, the processing was going to take longer than he wanted.

"He's still here," Leon said. "I was planning to visit him anyway."

"Why?"

"Your ring." He nodded toward my hand. "Carter built you a focusing tool that tripled your range. I want something for fire projection — different application, same principle. The vendor deals in pre-Compact artifacts. He'd be the one to ask."

Of course he would. Leon had been watching my ring work for three months, watching the charged whip thicken, watching the range extend, and his competitive instinct had been grinding away underneath the training banter the entire time. He wanted his own edge.

"We can do both," I said.

"I know." He was already standing. "I was going anyway. Now I have two reasons."

* * *

The vendor operated out of a rented shopfront on the east side of the arcane district — close enough to the Compact's offices to signal legitimacy, far enough to maintain plausible independence. The sign read "Harren's Collected Antiquities" in lettering that was deliberately modest. The door had three separate ward layers, which was two more than a legitimate antiques dealer needed.

(*Ward structure: detection, identification, response — military sequence, not commercial — this man knows exactly who walks through his door and has a plan for what happens if he doesn't like the answer —*)

Inside was exactly what you'd expect from someone who made a living selling things that technically shouldn't be sold. Glass cases with carefully labelled items — most genuine, some overpriced, a few that were probably fakes positioned to test whether the buyer knew the difference. The air smelled like preservation wax and old stone.

Harren himself was a man shaped like a barrel who'd been poured into a waistcoat. Mid-fifties, thinning hair, eyes that appraised everything they landed on and assigned it a price within two seconds. He smiled when he saw Leon.

"D'Nardis. Twice in one year — I'm honoured."

"Harren." Leon was already drifting toward a case on the far wall — fire-adjacent tools, projection aids, amplification matrices. His browsing had the focused energy of a man who'd been thinking about this purchase for weeks. "Anything new in fire augmentation?"

"A Telessi projection sleeve. Third era. Channels are worn but the architecture holds." Harren unlocked the case with practiced hands. "For someone with your output, it'd add maybe eight to ten feet of clean range before distortion."

Leon picked it up, turned it over, held it to the light. His fingers found the channel grooves by touch — the way a musician handles an instrument. Testing the balance, the resonance, the fit.

I let him browse. This was his world — the transactional energy of a tomb raider in a shop, a man who knew exactly what things were worth because he'd pulled them out of the dark places where they'd been hidden. Harren and Leon spoke the same language: provenance, condition, compatibility. Prices were numbers in a negotiation, not values in a budget.

While they haggled over the Telessi sleeve, I moved to the counter and waited for a natural break in the conversation.

"The Mallory crystal," I said. "The one Leon sold you six months ago."

Harren's gaze landed on me and did its two-second inventory. He glanced at Leon, who gave a fractional nod.

"Sold it," Harren said. "Within the month. Pre-Compact Mallory pieces don't sit on shelves."

"Who bought it?"

His expression went flat. The warmth he'd been showing Leon — the repeat-customer ease, the professional camaraderie — vanished like it had never been there.

"I don't discuss buyers," he said. "You understand."

"I do."

"Then you understand why this conversation is over."

I looked at Leon. He was holding the Telessi sleeve up to the light, turning it slowly, not looking at either of us. But his jaw had set.

"Harren," Leon said, still examining it. "That crystal is being used to drain people. Life force. Seven victims in six weeks, and the count is climbing." He set the sleeve down carefully and looked at Harren. Just looked at him — the same even calm he used for everything, except his eyes were doing something different. "I sold it to you. You sold it to someone else. The chain runs through both of us." A beat. "I'd prefer to keep this between professionals."

Harren was quiet for a long moment. His attention moved between Leon and me, weighing something that had nothing to do with prices.

"An intermediary," he said finally, and each word cost him something. "Paid through a broker — clean transaction, sealed funds, no direct contact." He said this the way someone describes the weather: factual, neutral, not his problem anymore. "The broker handled the approach. Said his client was a collector with specific interest in life-force adjacent artifacts. Academic interest, he said."

(*Academic interest — the phrase people use when they mean 'I know exactly what this does and I want it for that reason' —*)

"Can you describe the intermediary?"

Harren looked at Leon one more time. Whatever he saw there settled something.

"Average height. Professional clothing, not expensive — dressed to be forgettable. Knew exactly what he was looking at when I showed him the crystal. Checked the inscription, tested the anchoring integrity, asked about the conversion efficiency. Not a collector's questions — a practitioner's questions."

"Asked by the intermediary or relayed from the client?"

"Asked by the intermediary. He knew what he was looking for." Harren paused, weighing something. The two-second appraisal turned into a five-second one. "There were broker inquiries afterward. Two, maybe three months later. Someone checking the provenance chain — who sold it, who handled it, where it was recovered from. Standard grey-market due diligence, or someone building a case file. I didn't respond."

I filed that.

"The broker who handled the original sale," I said. "Name?"

Harren exhaled through his nose — the sound of a man who'd already given more than he wanted and weighing exactly how much more he could afford.

"Galden," he said. "The broker's name is Galden. Operates out of the canal district — Warehouse Row, third building from the junction. He handles acquisitions for clients who prefer not to appear in person. Discreet, professional. Expensive."

I memorised the name. Leon bought the Telessi sleeve for forty silvers — fair price, no negotiation. He'd lost the appetite for haggling. We left.

Outside, the arcane district's ward-stones hummed their usual clean suppression field. Leon held the sleeve in one hand and didn't look at it.

"The irony isn't lost on me," he said.

"I know."

"Standing in front of the man I sold it to. Browsing for new toys." He tucked the sleeve into his coat. "While the last thing I sold through him is—"

"I know, Leon."

He went quiet. Then the pivot kicked in — I watched it happen, the weight getting filed under something productive, the competence taking over because competence was safer than feeling.

"Galden," he said. "I know the name. Canal district broker, handles the upper end of the grey market. If he facilitated the sale, the buyer had resources and knew what they wanted. This wasn't an impulse purchase."

"Agreed."

"I can get to Galden faster than you can. I know how brokers work — what they'll give up, what they'll protect, how to frame the ask so it sounds like a business opportunity instead of an interrogation."

He was throwing himself into the work the way a man fills silence with noise when the alternative is hearing what the silence has to say. I recognised the mechanism because I used a different version of it. His version was louder, more kinetic — mine was colder and quieter, but the engineering was identical.

"Do it," I said. "And while you're in the canal district — Carter has a supplier problem. Three suppliers went quiet, coordinated. Compact intermediaries applying pressure. See if your contacts know anyone outside regulated channels who meets Carter's standards."

Leon almost smiled. "Carter's standards are higher than most Compact-certified suppliers."

"That's his prerogative."

"I'll find someone. It might take a few conversations." The mode was fully engaged now — multiple threads, parallel processing, his noise channelled into productivity. "Give me two days on Galden. The broker will talk if I frame it right."

We parted at the edge of the arcane district. Leon headed toward the canal with the Telessi sleeve in his coat and twelve hundred silvers' worth of guilt packed behind the professional mask. I headed toward the guild hall.

* * *

Ledger's office looked the same as it had two days ago — desk, chairs, annotated map of Drenwick with coloured pins. He'd added new pins since my last visit. Three red ones, clustered in the northeast.

"Sit," he said.

I sat. Ledger opened a folder — not the case folder, a different one. Thinner. The edges were worn, as though he'd been handling it for longer than the draining case had existed.

"I have intelligence that a woman connected to a man named Kae was recently killed," Ledger said. "I believe this is related to your case."

He delivered it the way he delivered everything: measured, professional, precisely worded. But there was a texture to the delivery that didn't match the content — too controlled, the way people speak when they're managing not just the information but their relationship to it.

(*The folder's worn — weeks of handling, maybe months. The Kae name isn't new intelligence. He's had this and been sitting on it. The woman's death isn't new either — he's known, and he's been deciding when and how much to share. The question is why —*)

"Kae," I said. "First name? Street name?"

"Street name, as far as my sources can determine. No registered identity. Active in the warrens, known to a network of street contacts who—" He paused. The pause was a decision. "—who appear to be protecting him."

"From?"

"From being found."

I waited. Ledger was holding back — I could feel it the way I could feel a ward's edges, the shape of what wasn't being said pressing against the shape of what was. Something personal underneath the institutional framing. The woman's death mattered to him in a way that "related intelligence" didn't cover.

He didn't offer more. I didn't push. Not yet.

"The victims are escalating," Ledger said, changing the angle.

Ledger pulled a second sheet from the folder. "Two new reports this morning. Both from the last three days. One is critical — a woman in the merchants' quarter, found by her husband. Severe cognitive deterioration, physical aging consistent with the pattern but accelerated. The healer puts her chances at even."

"The earlier victims were surviving."

"These aren't. Not necessarily." He set the sheet down. "The instrument — whatever it is — is being used more frequently. Or with more force. Or both. The extraction volume is increasing."

"Someone is getting desperate," I said.

Ledger looked at me for a beat longer than professional interest required. "Find Kae," he said. "Before the next victim doesn't survive."

* * *

The walk home gave me time to process, which was precisely the problem. The noise had been running at operational speed all day — Leon's crystal, the vendor's description of the intermediary, Galden the broker, Kae as a name, the dead woman connected to him, Ledger's worn folder and careful omissions — and now, without a task to anchor it, the threads were starting to multiply faster than I could file them.

(*The intermediary knew what he was looking at — practitioner's questions, not collector's questions — and the broker inquiries afterward were provenance checks, someone building a chain of custody, which means someone was planning to use the crystal and wanted to know exactly what they were buying and where it came from — that level of due diligence isn't desperation, it's engineering —*)

I pulled the leash. Three months of practice. The noise resisted, but the resistance was familiar now — an old argument I knew how to win, most of the time.

The door to Chandler's Row was unlocked. Mere was at the kitchen table with a bowl of something that smelled like root vegetables and a stack of herbalism notes. Sniff was asleep under the table, one paw twitching.

"It was Leon's crystal."

I hadn't planned to say it. The sentence arrived in the room before the decision to speak it had fully formed — which was new. I told Mere about cases because she asked, or because I needed her analytical framework. I didn't volunteer information out of some ambient need to share. Except, apparently, I did now.

She looked up from the notes. "Which crystal?"

"A Mallory focusing crystal. Pre-Compact. He recovered it from the Vethani Crypts and sold it to a traveling vendor about six months ago. The vendor sold it to an intermediary." I sat down across from her and realised I was still talking. "The intermediary asked questions that weren't about collecting — they were about using. Knew exactly what the crystal did. This was a targeted purchase, not opportunity."

"The crystal that's draining people."

"The crystal that's draining people."

Mere didn't blink. Didn't pause. The information went in and the processing happened somewhere I couldn't see.

"Leon's guilt will make him reckless."

"Leon's guilt is making him useful. He's running down the broker who facilitated the sale and finding alternative suppliers for Carter."

"Useful and reckless aren't exclusive." She picked up her spoon. "He'll push too hard because he's compensating, not because the investigation requires it. If the broker is connected to whoever bought the crystal, pushing too hard alerts them."

It was a clean observation. Accurate, clinical, precisely the kind of thing I should have been thinking about instead of letting Leon's operational competence reassure me.

(*She's right — Leon's guilt is fuel but fuel burns in every direction, and the canal district broker connects to the buyer who connects to whoever is running Kae, and if Galden reports back that someone's pulling the provenance thread —*)

"I'll tell him to be careful."

"Tell him to be strategic. 'Careful' isn't in his vocabulary."

The bluntness landed like a slap, and the noise — for once — got it wrong. I heard criticism underneath the words. Not of Leon. Of me. For letting Leon run unsupervised, for trusting competence over judgment, for not seeing the risk because I was too busy being relieved that someone else was handling a thread I didn't have time for.

I adjusted. Pulled back slightly from the conversation. Nodded once. Recalibrated my approach — I'd check in with Leon tomorrow, set parameters, make sure the broker conversation stayed within bounds that didn't compromise the investigation.

Mere watched me nod and went back to her soup.

I sat at the kitchen table in the house on Chandler's Row, and I thought about a man named Kae who was killing people with a crystal that had passed through Leon's hands, and a woman connected to Kae who was dead, and a guild intelligence officer whose folder was too worn for the timeline he'd given me.

The bracelet on my wrist pulsed a slow, warm amber.

The quiet from three days ago felt like someone else's life.
