Chapter 20: Ken Lister's Nephew
112 Silver Mirror Street, Dock District: The Iron Anchor Bar.
Rolls stood before the tavern entrance. He was dressed in sailor's garb, sporting a thick beard and a bronze-tanned complexion. This was the disguise his predecessor had created specifically to meet Ken Lister; every time he came here, he would first go to a nearby rented room to change.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, a wave of noise and shouting crashed over him before he even stepped inside. The sour stench of sweat mixed with the sharp tang of low-quality alcohol made Rolls furrow his brows in distaste.
It was noon. The bar was filled with dockworkers grabbing a drink during their break, as well as local loafers who spent their days idling there. It wasn't that work was hard to find—Backlund's Dock District saw a massive volume of ships daily, and the shipyards were always hiring—but to them, a day of labor was far less appealing than the quick joy of a cheap ale.
Rolls adjusted his demeanor to fit the scene, striding toward the bar where a bartender was polishing glasses. As he reached the counter, Rolls rapped on the wood. The bartender looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Geoffrey? You haven't been around in ages! Done with your voyage?"
"Yeah, just got back. Give me a Southville beer," Rolls responded with a grin.
His current identity was Geoffrey Lister, the distant nephew of Ken Lister, the owner of the Iron Anchor Bar. In this persona, he was a long-haul sailor who only returned to Backlund once a month.
Hank the bartender chuckled. "Figures. You come back and drink nothing but Southville. All the money you earn just ends up right back in Ken's pockets!"
"If you can convince my boss to stop filling the ship's barrels with rye ale and stock Southville instead, then maybe I wouldn't be so thirsty for it when I hit the shore."
This was the "character" his predecessor had crafted: a sailor who was sick to death of rye ale at sea and would drink only the premium Southville beer on land.
Hank set aside his cloth and poured a glass. "Southville costs four times as much as rye. No captain would do that unless they wanted to go bankrupt."
At sea, fresh water was precious and spoiled easily, so pirates and sailors used beer as a substitute. However, it was almost always the cheapest swill. If they drank premium beer at the rate they consumed water, no owner could sustain the cost.
Southville County in the Kingdom of Loen was famous for its beer and wine, favored by the nobility and priced accordingly. A glass of Southville cost 4 pence, while rye was only 1 penny. Per barrel, the price difference was over ten-odd soli.
After a bit more small talk, Rolls finished his beer and walked behind the counter. His "uncle," Ken Lister, lived in the quarters adjacent to the rear warehouse.
Inside, a burly, bald man with a thick beard was already waiting. His white shirt looked as though it might burst under the strain of his muscles. Seeing Rolls enter, Ken closed the door and frowned.
"Chatting with Hank again?"
"Of course," Rolls smiled, taking a seat opposite him.
"Is that really necessary?"
"Please, 'Uncle Ken,'" Rolls shrugged, making a mock strangling gesture around his neck. "If people find out what we're really doing, we'll both end up on the gallows."
"And was the beard necessary too?"
"Naturally. We're relatives, aren't we? Even if it's distant." Rolls pointed exaggeratedly at Ken's own beard.
Ken stroked his beard and growled, "Do you have intel on the ironclad ships? Lord Mastang was here yesterday—"
"Shh." Rolls pressed a finger to his lips. "I told you, we're doing life-and-death business. Why are you shouting?"
Ken exhaled sharply. He truly suspected Rolls was a top-tier stage actor; his movements were theatrical, yet every detail was so perfect that everyone in the bar firmly believed he had a nephew who was a sailor.
If Rolls knew what Ken was thinking, he would have agreed. Every top-tier barrister is, in essence, a top-tier actor in the courtroom.
"I want to enter some Beyonder circles," Rolls said. "Lord Mastang said you could help me."
Even in front of Ken, he referred to Byrd Mastang as "Lord Mastang," never breathing a word of their actual intimacy.
"What do you want with those people? No matter how good your acting is, you can't fake it in front of them."
Ken Lister didn't know Rolls was a Beyonder. In fact, he didn't even know Rolls's true identity.
Not everyone is an 'Audience,' Rolls thought. Besides, I don't need to fake anything. I am a Beyonder.
Rolls stroked his beard and asked seriously, "Just tell me how to get in."
Seeing Rolls touch the beard made Ken irritable. He looked away. "I do know of one circle. I can't guarantee they'll let you join, but you can certainly hire them."
"How do I attend?"
Ken gave Rolls a long, searching look. He suspected Rolls might already be a Beyonder—perhaps a gift from Lord Mastang?
"Come to the bar on the afternoon of the 2nd. I'll let you know then if it's a go."
"Fine." Rolls stood to leave, then asked with a smirk, "Every time I see you, you're hiding back here. Why?"
"I'm the owner, not the help!" Ken snapped. "Hank and the others can handle the front."
"Doesn't a bar owner need to greet his customers?"
"Bars in the Dock District never have to worry about a lack of customers."
Rolls shrugged and changed the subject. "Since you know Beyonders, why haven't you tried to become one yourself?"
At those words, Ken's face turned deathly pale. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his bald head. His voice became raspy, as if the words were being forced out of him:
"I'm... afraid."
Rolls returned to the bar, ordered another Southville, and continued chatting with Hank. When enough time had passed, he feigned drunkenness. Amidst Hank's mocking laughter, he stumbled out of the tavern.
Once back at his rented room, he washed his face, traded the sailor rags for his trench coat, and donned his soft felt hat. He regretted not having a bathtub—it would have helped mask the smell of alcohol—but a bathtub in a place like this would have been a security risk.
Rolls chuckled to himself, pulled his hat low, turned up his collar, and slipped out. By the time he reached the end of Silver Mirror Street, Fitch was already waiting with the carriage.
Without a word of greeting, Rolls climbed inside.
"North District. Saint Samuel Cathedral."