Chapter 50: A Few Guards
Chapter 50: A Few Guards
The woman returned twenty minutes later with a rolled-up piece of parchment. She spread it on the table between them, revealing a detailed floor plan of the Sanctum’s basement level.
"This is three years old," she said. "Security might have changed since then. Ward placement definitely has. But the basic layout should still be accurate."
Nacho studied the map, memorizing every corridor and chamber. The vault was exactly where Pip had described, accessible through a single reinforced door at the end of a long hallway. The problem was getting to that hallway without triggering a dozen different alarms.
"What about the wards?"
"Standard detection grid. Triggers on unauthorized mana signatures." She tapped a point on the map. "There’s a blind spot here, near the storage room for non-magical supplies. The grid was designed to focus on areas with valuable inventory, so mundane storage gets less coverage."
"That’s my entry point."
"It’s a start. But you’ll still have to deal with the guards. There are three on rotation in the basement, plus whatever reinforcements they call if something goes wrong."
Three guards. That’s manageable.
"What about the vault door itself?"
"Magically sealed. Requires a specific key held by the Head Curator. Without it, you’re not getting in."
Fuck.
"Where does the Curator keep the key?"
"On his person. Always." She smiled, thin and humorless. "You wanted impossible? There it is."
Nacho stared at the map, his mind racing through options. The Curator would be somewhere in the building during operating hours. Getting to him would mean navigating the entire Sanctum, avoiding dozens of guards and Guild members, and somehow convincing him to hand over the key.
Or...
"The Curator. Is he married?"
The woman blinked. "What?"
"Married. Does he have a wife? A mistress? Someone he might be inclined to visit after hours?"
"I... don’t know. Why does that matter?"
Nacho smiled. It was the smile of someone who’d just figured out how to do the impossible.
"Because I’m not going to steal the key from him. I’m going to steal it from whoever he sleeps next to."
The enforcer stared at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head slowly, a strange expression crossing her face.
"You’re insane."
"Yeah," Nacho agreed. "But I’m also very good at massages."
The enforcer’s name was Mira, and she had a contact who knew a contact who owed somebody a favor.
Within two hours, Nacho had everything he needed.
Head Curator Aldous Venn. Fifty-three years old. Widower. No children. Lived alone in a modest townhouse near the merchant quarter, which was suspicious by itself because nobody who handled that much valuable inventory should be living modestly. The man had a gambling habit that ate through his salary like termites through wet wood, and he’d been borrowing from increasingly dangerous people to cover his losses.
He also had a mistress.
Her name was Delilah Crane, and she worked as a seamstress in the Low District. According to Mira’s sources, Venn visited her every third night like clockwork, staying until just before dawn. He kept the vault key on a chain around his neck at all times, even during his romantic encounters.
"You’re really going to seduce the mistress of a Sanctum official," Mira said flatly, watching Nacho memorize the address. "That’s your plan."
"I’m going to give her a massage. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
Nacho tucked the paper into his inventory and stood up from the booth. "Tell the Rat King I’ll have something interesting for him by morning. If this works, we’re going to need to move fast."
"And if it doesn’t work?"
"Then I guess you won’t have to worry about me anymore."
He left the Drowning Rat and made his way across the city, his mind running through scenarios and contingencies. The sun was already past its peak, which gave him maybe six hours before Venn’s scheduled visit to his mistress. Six hours to find Delilah Crane, earn her trust, and position himself to grab the key.
No pressure at all.
Delilah’s shop occupied a cramped storefront wedged between a cobbler and a pawnbroker. The windows were dusty, the sign was faded, and the door squeaked like a dying mouse when Nacho pushed it open. Inside, bolts of fabric lined the walls in haphazard stacks, and a single oil lamp cast weak light across a cluttered workspace.
The woman behind the counter looked up at the sound of his entrance. She was pretty in a worn sort of way, with dark hair shot through with premature gray and lines around her eyes that spoke of too many late nights and not enough sleep. Her dress was simple but well-made, probably her own work, and her hands bore the calluses of someone who spent most of her life with a needle.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was cautious. The Low District didn’t get many customers who walked in off the street without knowing exactly what they wanted.
Nacho put on his most disarming smile. "I’m looking for alterations. Someone told me you’re the best seamstress in the district."
"Someone lied." But she set down the fabric she’d been working on and wiped her hands on her apron. "What needs fixing?"
He pulled a shirt from his inventory, one he’d deliberately torn earlier in anticipation of this moment. "Caught it on a nail. Can you mend it without leaving a visible seam?"
She took the shirt and examined it with professional detachment, her fingers tracing the tear. "This is quality material. Siren silk, unless I’m mistaken."
"You’re not."
"Expensive taste for someone shopping in the Low District." Her eyes met his, sharp and assessing. "You’re not from around here."
"Is it that obvious?"
"The accent gives you away. And the fact that you’re too clean." She handed the shirt back. "I can fix it, but it’ll cost you. Two silver, payment up front."
Nacho paid without haggling, which made her eyebrows rise slightly. He wasn’t here to negotiate. He was here to establish a connection, and being generous with money was the fastest way to do that.
While she worked on the shirt, he wandered the shop, making casual conversation about fabrics and fashion. She answered his questions with the patience of someone who’d dealt with worse customers, but gradually her guard began to lower.
He was charming without being pushy, interested without being intrusive. By the time she finished the repair, she’d relaxed enough to actually smile at one of his jokes.