“He’s here, isn’t he?” the boy was leaning against the doorpost, a smug grin on his freckled face.

Polias noticed Falcis’ hand had disappeared beneath his jacket, to where his signature sickle was nestled. Simon frowned in disgust before realizing that his own hand had found its way to the cool grip of his concealed revolver.

“What on earth are you harping on about, lad? Who’s here?” Polias was surprised and impressed to hear Patrick speak up, a convincing level of annoyance in his voice.

“Who do you think?” the boy retorted, no less sure of himself, “The one that’s got every scrounger, penny-grabber and vagabond scouring the streets: Ultor. He’s here, isn’t he?” he looked around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time, “The whole city to hide in and he sets up camp right on my humble little doorstep. What luck!”

The boy began to waltz into the hall, hands in his pockets and shoulders stooped, casual as anything. Unconsciously, the occupants of the warehouse found themselves shifting aside for the diminutive child. He found a rusty camper chair and noisily dragged it to the middle of the room, where sat down, tipping his seat back.

Polias smiled. The kid was convincing, very convincing, but it was just a little too neat, a little too contrived. Polias could imagine the child rehearsing his role just outside the doorway. Confident people were sure enough of themselves not to bother looking confident. One natural carefree gesture would have accentuated his façade, but he was using every trope in the book. It was clear he was desperately trying to compensate for his thinly veiled fear.

Polias approached the boy, standing a meter in front of him. The youngster stopped examining his nails and looked up, visibly shrinking a fraction as he did.

“So what makes you so sure Ultor is here?”

The circle of spectators had closed around the boy now, quietly menacing. He glanced around, obviously reconsidering his approach.

He stammered slightly when he spoke, “I’ve been watching. Big old buildings like this don’t change hands without someone noticing. The old owner used to let us use the place for a night or two, you know, when the storms got real bad like,” he paused for a moment but took the silence as an invitation to continue, “Well, the other night it was raining something terrible, as I’m sure you know, so we swung by. Only, we notice there are lights on and sounds coming from inside. We thought it was some other kids at first, a gang what picked this place as their new roost, or some bruisers skiving away for a drink. Anyway,” he wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, “we drew lots and I got the short’n. So I had a nose around. Knew who you were right away. No offence, but you guys don’t exactly look like your typical gangster sorts. I heard this Ultor guy was keen on recruiting shirts and the like, so,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I guessed you must be his guys.”

Tony wasn’t quite sure what he had expected. A round of applause admittedly seemed unlikely, but he was wholly unprepared for the all-pervading silence that followed. It was deeply unnerving.

Polias leaned in closer, “So let me get this straight. You and your little friends are currently running around town accusing our little group of being associated with Ultor, the man who killed The Grey Wolf’s son, and you thought it wise to come and inform us of this? How long before they come for us?”

Tony shook his head vigorously, “That’s the thing, I didn’t tell anyone. I told the others that a bunch of Sable Guard’s had come in to get outta the rain. They bought it. We went and slept under the bridge over by Denby Street. I didn’t tell a soul, honest.”

Polias slunk back a few paces, clearly confused. Patrick took it upon himself to take over the interrogation.

“So, why did you come here lad? Can’t come barging in here with wild stories like that!” his tone was soft but compelling.

Tony fidgeted. “Well, I want in.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want in,” Tony said firmly.

Patrick looked aghast, “What would your mother say to hear you now, looking to get involved with a bunch of villains and low lives? Preposterous for a boy your age to have such designs. You should be taking your studies seriously, looking to get a good education, and a job!” Patrick was shaking his head, “Besides, lad, like we said, you won’t find Ultor here.”

Patrick held out his hands as if offering the boy the chance to look for himself, but his denial had come far too late. The boy was more convinced than ever that he had found the right place.

“Don’t have a mother; I’m orphaned. Not a Jack in the city who would give me a job. Not got an education, nor any kind of trade, short of scavenging. Look, I don’t know this Ultor guy, true, but I do know The Grey Wolf, and that’s enough for me to want to pitch in with you guys.”

“Do you realize how dangerous it is for you to even be here?” Polias scolded.

“It’s not if Ultor is the person people say he is!” For every greedy, skeevy sort The Pits made, there are a dozen of us sorts who hate the fact that we have to rely on those bastards’ scraps just to get by. We’re on your side, honest.

“Folk here like it simple; they just want to eat, and they’ll call any man who fills their stomach God, until at least the next meal. Plenty caught up in it too who would rather see their living come from clean hands. We’re tired of sleeping with one eye open and scrounging to get by,: Tony perched on the edge of his chair, “They say he’s not like the others. They say Ultor actually gives a shit. You know what that means to people like me? He can win them. He can win all of them.”

“Is that so?” Patrick folded his arms.

“You guys are going about this wrong, though. You’re paying people to talk when you should be paying people to shut up. How long did you think it would be before someone chanced upon you? Then what? The Grey Wolf’s just playing the waiting game. The first hungry sap to get wind about you guys would go running to him straight off. Let me tell you now, if you’re hungry enough you’ll sell your own da’ down the river. For a few pennies you’d be right in his hands.”

“So the same people you just said idolize us would gladly throw us under the bus for a loaf of bread.”

“Can’t put ideas in a person’s head before you put food in their belly,” Tony shrugged, “Doesn’t have to be that way, though. ‘Cos now you’ve got me.”

“And what exactly can you do for us?” Anthony asked.

“It’s not about what you know, but what you can make the other person think you know. Half of us gutter trotters make our livings by spreading lies and putting ideas in people’s heads. We start by telling people that you lot have been wandering from backstreet to backstreet, but not just killing, no, no, feeding!”

“A food drive?”

“There is no way we can afford that,” Arthur said, wringing his hands together.

“Won’t cost you a thing. Such and such, saw such and such, saw such and such, who was personally given a bowl of broth by hero of the city, Ultor!” he punched the air for effect.

Anthony barked a short laugh, “Can you believe this kid?”

“That’s just phase one!” Tony held up a finger, “Next we tell everyone where Ultor is hiding?”

“We do what now?”

“Not really! Come on, keep up. Give me a shot, and by sunrise I’ll have The Grey Wolf chasing twenty Ultors, all over the damn city. How long do you think it will be before he gets pissed off then? You’ve taken his son from him, now see how quick he moves when you make a fool of him.”

Tony sat back triumphantly, smug as smug can be.

Anthony was stroking his chin, “Am I losing it, or did what that little guy just said kind of make sense?”

“You are a bold one,” everyone turned with a start to find Ultor at the foot of the staircase, stealth usually eluding him, “And what do you ask in return for all of this?”

Tony was momentarily awestruck, but soon found his voice.

“Just want to be treated as people. That’s all we want.”

“Hmm,” Ultor began to pace, “You are a very prudent young man. Thank you for alerting us to our carelessness. We treated this place as if it were a stronghold. We thought ourselves safe, hidden, untouchable. The reality is that danger is constant, and we must be vigilant in order to avoid it,” he was addressing his men at this point, but looked squarely at Tony when he said, “I believe we can help each other, you and I.”

Tony beamed. There were a few exclamations of surprise, but no one objected.

“What’s your name, kid?” Patrick again spoke out.

“Tony,” Patrick laughed, “Sound like a fifty-year-old gambler, no offence.”

Tony looked a little taken aback but seemed not to take it too personally.

“I suppose we’d best see about getting you a bunk,” Anthony said.

Tony brightened, “I get to stay here with you guys?”

“Of course. If you’re going to be one of us, then you’re going to live like one of us.”

Tony’s smile glowed with the pleasure of acceptance.

“I wouldn’t get too excited, there are a lot of snorers,” Zane shot Arthur a look.

“He’s not wrong. Ah well, you’ll get used to it. Come along then, Newbie,” Anthony called back as he wandered towards the rear of the warehouse where the group kept their meagre supplies.

“I rather like that name, Iustus,” Ultor intercepted the pair and placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder, “Welcome to your new home, Novus.”

---

Vincent Bracchus hefted the next of the men to his feet. Like his companions, this man was also a mess of welts and bruises.

Shadows danced across Vincent’s face, manipulated by the flames behind. The light of the conflagration accentuated the cold, pitilessness of Vincent’s eyes. One might call Vincent a handsome man, well-groomed, young-looking for one in his mid-thirties, but they would be equally forgiven for finding him unsettling. His skin almost entirely lacked the lines and marks that tend to riddle the faces of emotional sorts, which, coupled with his sharp features, gave him the impression of having been drawn. His peculiar look was not the source of renown, however. Vincent was the youngest and, perhaps because of this, in many ways the most useful of the Grey Wolf’s advisors.

There were four men in total, all homeless and all in a lamentable state. Flanking them stood nearly a score of The Grey Wolf’s men, calm as a hurricane’s eye and armed with all manner and description of weapons.

Holding the battered tramp by the collar with one hand, and scratching at the scalp beneath his shoulder-length black hair with the other, Vincent turned to his employer.

“They all deny any affiliation with Ultor or any of those in his charge. They claim to have never had contact with anyone in his inner circle, and insist that if they learn anything they will relay any information to you immediately,” Vincent sounded bored even to himself. He was bored. This was one of dozens of raids that had yet again proved fruitless.

The citizens of The Pits were more than happy to spin a tale in order to earn a few coins, which caused no end of frustrations. On this occasion the ‘tip-off’ had led The Wolf Pack to an old car dealership, now inhabited by several beggars. Of the occupants, only nine had been present during the raid. Three had been killed trying to escape in the initial consternation, one had not survived the hurried torture which followed, and another still had been killed for his insolence. The rest now gave their most empathy-inducing looks to the back of the Grey Wolf’s head. Well, those who were conscious.

“What do you want done with them?” Vincent said, stifling a yawn.

The Grey Wolf was a large man, a generous six foot five, and had the build to match his height. He was an imposing figure, aging though he was. His hair was ashen, with only a smattering of black remaining, but it had lost none of its thickness. He had a grizzly beard to match his thick tuft of hair, which was only a marginally darker shade of grey, and coals for eyes.

Lupus’ leathery face was turned away, staring into the distance. He gave no regard to the carnage behind him. His shadow wavered monstrously as the flames from the old depot rose to incredible heights. The heat was becoming uncomfortable. The Grey Wolf did not move or say a word.

“As you wish.,” Vincent acknowledged.

With a nod of the advisor’s head, four troops moved forth and levelled the muzzles of their guns.

The pleas to reconsider were cut short by the ringing of gunfire.

Vincent looked at his master for a moment, still an unflinching mountain, framed by the trunks of skyscrapers in the darkness beyond.

“Find the brat informant who told us of this place. I want his genitals on display in the Square of the Unknown Marshall before sunrise. If any more peasants think they can toy with us then perhaps that shall give them cause to think twice,” Vincent spoke on behalf of the Wolf.

There were a few mumbled affirmatives and the men dispersed, leaving the bodies of the dead to the mercy of the elements.