I shake my head quickly. Wide eyes. Eager.
"See?" Renan beams. "Loyal as a hound, this one. And she's got a gift for moving through places without being noticed. Picked up six purses yesterday without anyone blinking. I'm thinking she might be useful for that thing. The War cache."
Einar's whole body has gone still.
"The War cache," he repeats.
"The one near the eastern docks. You know." Renan's being sloppy on purpose now, theatrical. "Where they're keeping the—ah, I probably shouldn't say. Forget I mentioned it."
"Of course."
But his eyes are already cataloging. Already planning how he'll report this. I can see it happening—the calculation, the hunger for useful information.
Renan keeps talking. Keeps spilling carefully constructed secrets, just drunk enough to be believable, just careless enough to be exploited. And Einar absorbs it all, certain he's the clever one, certain he's getting away with something.
When he finally excuses himself—eager to go report, I'm guessing—I let out a breath.
Renan's drunk sloppiness vanishes the moment the door closes.
"Not bad," he says. Clear. Sober. "You've done that before."
"Done what?"
"Made yourself small. Made people underestimate you." His gaze is measuring.
My jaw tightens. "I don't know what—"
"You don't have to explain." He stands, drops coins on the table. "I'm just saying. You've got the instincts for this. The debt shit is whatever Koshin needs it to be. But this?" He gestures at the space where Einar was sitting. "This you're actually good at."
My mouth opens. Closes.
All those years of reading people. Knowing what face to wear. Lying to survive.
It translates. Apparently.
Wonderful. My one marketable skill is being a manipulative bitch. Really rounding out the résumé nicely.
The walk back feels different.
Not safer. Safety isn't a thing that exists for me anymore. But something in my shoulders has unclenched.
"He actually believed the eastern dock thing," I say. "There's no cache there, is there?"
"There is now." Renan sounds amused. "We placed it two days ago. Sealed crates. Very official looking. War's going to find Faith soldiers breaking in within the week, and suddenly there's a whole new conflict we didn't have to manufacture."
"What's in the crates?"
"Turnips."
I stop walking. "Turnips."
"Koshin wanted to do potatoes, but I thought turnips were funnier." He shrugs. "We painted little faces on some of them. Gave them names."
"You—" I press my fingers to my temples. "Faith and War are going to start a conflict over root vegetables with faces."
"To be fair, they won't know that until they've already killed each other over access." His mouth twitches. "The turnips are just a bonus. For us. Specifically."
"That's—" I let out a breath. "Horrifying. But impressive."
