Chapter 6
title: "The Braid and the Bargain" wordCount: 3374
She was already inside when I opened the back door, sitting on my father's old workbench with her legs crossed, and the first thing she said was: "They're coming for you in two days."
I froze with my hand still on the doorknob. The workshop's emergency lights cast her face in harsh shadows, turning her smile into something predatory. She'd changed since the Auction House—different jacket, same boots, hair pulled back in a braid that looked freshly done.
"How did you—"
"Get in?" Kess swung her legs, heels tapping against the bench's metal frame. "Your lock is Tier 1 System-generated, which means it has a standard bypass protocol if you know the right sequence, and I know a lot of sequences." She tilted her head. "Also, you should really oil that hinge. Squeaks like a dying rat."
The burn scars on my forearm itched. I stepped inside and closed the door, checking the street through the gap before the latch caught. Empty. Four in the morning, and the Rust Garden was as quiet as it ever got, which meant you could still hear distant machinery and the occasional scream.
"The Ironclad," I said.
"The Ironclad Collective, to use their full pretentious title." She pulled something from her pocket—a data chip, the kind that stored encrypted intelligence. "They've been tracking System-enhanced crafters for six months. You're on a list. Number three, actually, which is pretty impressive considering how hard you try to stay invisible."
"Who's number one?"
"Dead." She said it like she was commenting on the weather. "Number two disappeared last week. Ironclad claimed it was voluntary recruitment, but the blood they found in his workshop suggests otherwise."
My fingers found the edge of my father's work gloves, tucked into my belt. I didn't put them on. "And you know this because?"
"Because I make it my business to know things." Kess reached up and adjusted her braid, fingers working through the plait with practiced efficiency. "Also because the Ironclad aren't subtle. They've been buying up property in the Rust Garden, establishing supply routes, making it very clear they're planning to expand their operations." She met my eyes. "You're not property. You're an asset they want to acquire."
"Here's the thing," I said. "I don't get acquired."
"That's adorable." She started re-braiding her hair, undoing what she'd just fixed. "You think you have a choice. They're not going to ask nicely, Voss. They're going to show up with a contract that says you work for them or you stop working permanently, and then they're going to enforce whichever option you pick."
The workshop felt smaller suddenly. I'd spent three years building this space, turning it into something defensible, something mine. Every tool had its place. Every material was catalogued. Every entrance was monitored except apparently this one, because Kess had waltzed through my security like it was a suggestion.
"You came here to warn me," I said. "Why?"
"Because I need something from you." She finished the braid and immediately started undoing it again, fingers moving with nervous energy that didn't match her casual tone. "And I can't get it if you're locked in an Ironclad facility making weapons for their war machine."
"What do you need?"
"Extraction first." Kess hopped down from the bench, landing with barely a sound. "I can get you out of the Rust Garden tonight. I know people who know people who can set you up somewhere the Ironclad won't look, at least not immediately. You'd have to leave all this behind, but you'd be breathing, which seems like a fair trade."
She was offering me an escape. A way out of the trap that had been closing since I'd taken that first commission from Petra, maybe since before that. Since my father died and I'd decided that isolation was the only safety that mattered.
I thought about Mara, three months gone, killed in a Bloom raid while carrying a sword I'd made. About the Auction House and its casual violence. About Malchek's summons, still glowing in my peripheral vision like a threat I couldn't dismiss.
"No," I said.
Kess blinked. "No?"
"I'm not running." The words came out harder than I'd intended. "I run now, I'm running forever. The Ironclad will find me eventually, or someone else will, and I'll be in the same position except without my tools, without my workshop, without anything I've built."
"So you're just going to wait here for them to—"
"I'm going to make a counter-offer." I moved past her to the main workbench, where the Tier 3 dagger I'd finished yesterday sat wrapped in oilcloth. "You want something from me. I want something from you. Let's talk business."
Her expression shifted, surprise giving way to something that might have been respect. "You want to negotiate while you're on a forty-eight-hour countdown?"
"The thermal dynamics are off if I'm negotiating from a position of panic." I unwrapped the dagger, let her see the blade's edge, the way the System-enhanced steel caught the light. "You said you need something. What?"
Kess studied the dagger for a long moment, then reached into her jacket and pulled out her own blade. Tier 2, System-generated, the kind of mass-produced weapon that came out of Ironclad forges by the thousand. Functional. Reliable. Completely soulless.
"Bet you a sandwich you can't make me something better than this," she said.
I took the blade from her, turned it over in my hands. The balance was wrong—too much weight in the pommel, trying to compensate for the cheap alloy in the tang. The edge would hold for maybe twenty engagements before it needed resharpening, and the System enhancement was basic kinetic amplification, the kind of thing any Tier 1 crafter could manage.
"This is garbage," I said.
"This is what I've got." She leaned against the bench, watching me examine her weapon with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "And before you ask, yes, I know it's garbage, but it's garbage that's kept me alive for two years, so I'm kind of attached to it in a 'this piece of junk hasn't gotten me killed yet' way."
"What do you need it to do?"
"Everything." She laughed, the sound bright and incongruous in the workshop's gloom. "I need it to cut through Tier 3 armor, hold an edge against System-enhanced opponents, and ideally not shatter if I have to parry something that outweighs me by a hundred pounds, which happens more often than you'd think in my line of work."
"Your line of work being?"
"Procurement specialist." She said it with a straight face. "I acquire things that other people want to keep, and I deliver them to people who pay better."
"You're a thief."
"I'm a very good thief." She grinned. "And I'm offering you a deal. You make me something that'll keep me alive and make me indispensable to my current employers, and I'll bring you materials from places you can't reach. Deep Rust Garden salvage, the kind of components that don't make it to market because they're too dangerous to transport or too valuable to sell."
The offer hung between us like a blade balanced on its edge. I thought about my dwindling supply of rare materials, about the commissions I'd been taking just to keep the workshop stocked. About the fact that I'd been slowly burning through my reserves while telling myself I was being careful, being smart, being safe.
"Here's the thing," I said. "I don't know you. I don't know who you work for, what you're really after, or why you're so interested in keeping me out of Ironclad hands."
"Does it matter?" Kess started braiding her hair again, third time in as many minutes. "You need materials. I can get materials. You need someone who can move through the Garden without attracting attention. I'm very good at not being noticed when I don't want to be." She paused, fingers stilling in her hair. "And maybe I don't want to see another crafter disappear into the Ironclad's machine. Maybe I think that's a waste."
Something in her voice made me look up. She was staring at her own hands, at the half-finished braid, and for just a moment her expression was unguarded. Tired. Worried in a way that seemed genuine.
"You've seen it happen before," I said.
"I've seen a lot of things happen." She finished the braid with a sharp tug. "Most of them bad. Some of them preventable, if someone had just—" She cut herself off, shook her head. "Doesn't matter. What matters is whether you're smart enough to take help when it's offered, or stubborn enough to die on principle."
I set her garbage blade down on the bench. "I'll make you something. Tier 3, custom specifications, System-enhanced for durability and edge retention. In exchange, you bring me one deep salvage run per week. I pick the components, you acquire them, no questions about what I'm using them for."
"One run per week seems light."
"One run per week keeps you alive." I met her eyes. "You go deeper than that, you're going to attract attention. Scavengers, claim-jumpers, things that live in the dark parts of the Garden that don't have names." I pulled my father's gloves from my belt, finally put them on. "Good enough gets you killed."
Kess considered this, head tilted like she was calculating odds. Then she stuck out her hand. "Deal. But I want the weapon finished before the Ironclad show up, which gives you about forty-six hours."
"I'll need measurements." I took her hand, felt calluses that matched my own. "And you'll need to tell me exactly what kind of situations you're planning to survive with this thing."
"Oh, you know." She squeezed once and let go. "The usual. Ambushes, betrayals, people who think I know more than I do or less than I should." Her smile was sharp. "The kind of situations where having a really good blade is the difference between walking away and being a cautionary tale."
We were halfway through the measurement process—Kess standing with her arms out while I checked her reach and grip strength—when someone pounded on the back door hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Voss!" Griz's voice, rough with urgency. "Open up. Now."
I looked at Kess. She'd already moved, positioning herself behind the workbench with one hand on her garbage blade. Professional instinct, the kind that came from expecting trouble.
"Friend of yours?" she asked.
"Information broker." I crossed to the door, checked the peephole. Griz was alone, but his shoulders were tight with tension. "He's safe."
"Nobody's safe." But she didn't draw her weapon.
I opened the door. Griz pushed past me, already talking. "We've got a problem. Someone's buying up salvage across the Garden, paying triple market rate for anything Tier 2 or higher. Started six hours ago, hit every supplier I know, and they're not being subtle about—" He stopped. Stared at Kess. "You."
"Me." Kess's smile was all teeth. "Hey, Griz. Been a while."
"Not long enough." Griz turned to me, and his expression was harder than I'd ever seen it. "You want to tell me why she's in your workshop? Because last I checked, she works for the people trying to own you."
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. Kess's hand tightened on her blade, not drawing it but making it clear she could. Griz had his own weapon—a Tier 2 shock baton that I'd modified for him last year—clipped to his belt, and his fingers were drifting toward it.
"I work for myself," Kess said. Her voice had lost its casual warmth, gone flat and dangerous. "And I don't remember asking for your opinion on my employment status."
"You were at the Auction House." Griz's eyes never left her. "I saw you. Back corner, watching Voss like he was a mark."
"I was watching him like he was interesting." She shifted her weight, subtle repositioning that put her in a better defensive stance. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Griz looked at me. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she showed up right after you got Malchek's summons, offering help you didn't ask for, and now she's in your workshop taking measurements like she's planning to—what, exactly? Make sure you fit in an Ironclad transport crate?"
"She's a client," I said.
"She's a problem." Griz took a step closer. "You know what she does, Voss? She finds people the Ironclad want, and she makes sure those people end up where they're supposed to be. She's a procurement specialist, which is a fancy way of saying she's a—"
"Careful." Kess's voice was soft. "You're about to say something you can't take back."
"I'm about to say something he needs to hear." Griz's hand was on his baton now. "She's a hunter, Voss. She finds people and she delivers them, and the fact that she's here, right now, offering you deals and acting like she's your friend? That's not coincidence. That's her doing her job."
The workshop was too small for this. Three people, two of them armed, all of them tense enough that one wrong word would turn this into violence. I could feel my System interface flickering at the edge of my vision, offering combat options I didn't want to consider.
"Kess," I said. "Is he right?"
She looked at me for a long moment. Her hand was still on her blade, but something in her expression had shifted. The braid she'd worked on three times was already coming loose, strands falling across her face.
"I find people," she said finally. "That's true. And I deliver them to people who pay me, which is also true." She paused. "But I've never delivered someone who didn't want to be found. I'm not a slaver, Griz. I'm not a kidnapper. I'm someone who makes connections between people who need each other, and sometimes those connections are worth money."
"Semantics," Griz said.
"Details." Kess's smile was bitter. "You want to know why I'm here? Fine. I'm here because the Ironclad are planning to take Voss whether he agrees or not, and I think that's a waste of a good crafter. I'm here because I need someone who can make me something better than mass-produced garbage, and he's the best option in the Garden. I'm here because—" She stopped. Started over. "I'm here because I choose to be, and that's more than you can say for most of the people in this city."
"Touching." Griz's voice was acid. "Real heartwarming. Doesn't change the fact that you're connected to the same people who are trying to acquire him."
"Connected isn't employed." Kess let go of her blade, held up both hands. "I know people in the Ironclad. I know people in the Bloom. I know people in every faction in this city because that's how I stay alive. But I don't work for any of them exclusively, and I sure as hell don't take orders from people who think they can own other people."
"Then why are you really here?" I asked.
She looked at me, and for the first time since she'd broken into my workshop, she seemed uncertain. Vulnerable in a way that didn't match her confident swagger.
"Because I'm tired," she said quietly. "I'm tired of watching good people disappear. I'm tired of being the person who knows where the bodies are buried because I helped dig the holes. I'm tired of—" She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Point is, I'm offering you a deal that benefits both of us, and you can take it or leave it, but don't pretend I'm here to hurt you. If I wanted you in Ironclad hands, you'd already be there."
The the quiet held. Griz was still tense, still ready for violence. Kess was still holding her hands up, still watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. And I was standing between them, trying to figure out who to trust when trust had gotten me nothing but scars and dead friends.
"The supply chain attack," I said to Griz. "You said someone's buying up salvage. Who?"
"That's the thing." Griz finally looked away from Kess, focused on me. "I couldn't get a name. But I got a payment method." He pulled out a credit chip, the kind used for large transactions. "Ironclad Credits. Authenticated, verified, the real deal. Someone with serious Ironclad backing is trying to starve your supply chain, make sure you can't get materials for any commissions you might take."
"That doesn't make sense." Kess frowned. "If they want to acquire him, why cut off his resources? That just makes him desperate, more likely to run or do something stupid."
"Unless they want him desperate." Griz turned the credit chip over in his fingers. "Unless they want him in a position where he has to accept their offer because he's got no other options."
My stomach went cold. The pattern was there, suddenly visible. Malchek's summons. The Ironclad's timeline. The supply chain attack. Someone was orchestrating this, tightening a noose I hadn't even realized was around my neck.
"How long until I'm out of materials?" I asked.
"At your current usage rate?" Griz did the math in his head. "Three days. Maybe four if you ration."
Three days. Less than the Ironclad's forty-eight-hour deadline. Less than the time I'd need to finish Kess's commission, assuming I even started it. I was trapped, caught between factions I didn't understand, with resources running out and options narrowing to a single point.
"Here's the thing," I said. "I need to know who's behind the supply attack. Not speculation. Facts."
"I'm working on it." Griz pocketed the credit chip. "But it's going to take time, and time is something you don't have much of."
"Then we work faster." I looked at Kess. "You said you can get deep salvage. How fast?"
"Depends on what you need." She'd lowered her hands, but her posture was still defensive. "And whether you trust me enough to tell me."
"I don't trust you." The words came out flat. "But I don't have better options, and good enough gets you killed."
"So we're doing this?" She glanced at Griz. "Even with your friend here thinking I'm going to betray you?"
"I think you're going to do whatever serves your interests," I said. "Same as everyone else in this city. The question is whether our interests align long enough for both of us to survive."
Kess studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Fair enough. I can work with that." She started re-braiding her hair again, fingers moving with that same nervous energy. "I'll need a list of components. Priorities, alternatives, acceptable substitutes. And I'll need it fast, because if someone's trying to starve your supply chain, they're going to notice when I start pulling materials from the deep Garden."
"They'll notice anyway," Griz said. "Question is whether they'll connect it to Voss before it's too late."
"Then we make sure they don't." Kess finished her braid, let it fall across her shoulder. "I'm good at not being noticed, remember?"
"You're good at a lot of things." Griz's voice was still hard. "Doesn't mean I trust you."
"Good." Kess's smile was sharp. "Trust gets you killed faster than anything else in this city."
I was about to respond when Griz's expression changed. He was looking at the credit chip again, turning it over in his fingers like he'd just noticed something.
"What?" I asked.
"The authentication code." He held it up to the light. "It's not just Ironclad. It's Ironclad Collective, Central Operations division. That's not field operatives or local contractors. That's someone high up in their command structure."
"How high?"
"High enough that they don't usually get involved in individual acquisitions." Griz looked at Kess. "High enough that they'd have access to intelligence about who's moving through the Garden, who's making deals, who's—" He stopped. "Who's working as a procurement specialist for multiple factions."
Kess went very still.
"Griz," I said. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the person buying up salvage is using Ironclad Credits." He looked directly at Kess, and his expression was cold. "Want to tell him, or should I?"