Chapter 104: That Smelled Like Trouble VII
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"At first, it was just whispers," he said. "A drunk in a tavern saying he heard a hunter found Dawn boy’s bones. A caravan guard saying he saw a Dawn ring in a monster’s stomach. A priest claiming he performed a funeral rite for a nameless corpse."
He smiled faintly, cruelly, at the memory.
"All lies," he said. "Carefully placed lies."
He lifted a finger, ticking them off as if counting business steps.
"Step one. Start small," he murmured. "A whisper that can’t be traced. A story that sounds like an accident."
"Step two. Repeat," he said. "Not with the same voice. Never with the same voice. Different mouths. Different streets. Different corners of the city."
"Step three. Add detail," he continued. "People believe details. Blood. A torn coat. A broken ring. A shadow beast. The more specific the lie, the more it feels like the truth."
One of the guards swallowed, listening despite himself.
Dickon’s eyes gleamed.
"I paid beggars to cry about him," he said. "I paid low-tier bards to sing about the young master who died alone in the wild. I paid a tavern owner to swear on his mother’s bones that he served Sekhmet his last drink."
He straightened, voice sharpening.
"And then I made it official," he said.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sealed paper. It bore a copied stamp from a minor trade office, the kind used to mark deaths and missing persons.
Not real.
But real enough.
"I had a clerk ’accidentally’ file him as deceased," Dickon said. "Not in the city records, that would be too bold. In the trade registries. In the merchant lists. In the auction schedules."
He tapped the paper.
Tap... tap...
"Once a name is marked dead in the merchant world," he said quietly, "buyers stop asking for it. Sellers stop fearing it. Competitors stop respecting it."
The second guard, still kneeling, spoke cautiously. "Young master... why not simply attack Dawn House directly."
Dickon turned his head slowly.
His smile returned.
It was worse than his anger.
"Because Dawn House is old," he said. "It has allies. It has contracts written in blood and ink. It has city lord favors and hidden debts. If you strike it openly, it fights back."
He leaned down until his face was close to the guard’s.
"But if you break the man," he whispered, "the house collapses itself."
He straightened again, voice rising with bitter satisfaction.
"That was the plan," he said. "Break his father’s will. Make him believe his son died."
He paced again.
Tap... tap... tap...
"His father is a merchant," Dickon said. "A stubborn one. A proud one. He can endure losses. He can endure threats. But grief."
Dickon’s lips curled.
"Grief makes men soft," he said. "Grief makes men careless. Grief makes them stop guarding their own gates."
He spread his hands slightly as if showing the invisible result.
"So I fed him grief," he said. "Little by little. A rumor here. A whispered confirmation there. A merchant friend offering condolences with watery eyes."
He laughed softly, but there was no joy in it.
"I watched his business slow," he said. "I watched his auctions shrink. I watched his supply lines weaken. I watched him leave the city."
His eyes hardened.
"And when he left," Dickon said, "I tightened the rope."
He pointed toward the far wall, where a map of the trade district hung. Red marks indicated supplier routes. Blue marks indicated Dawn House properties. Black marks indicated Iron House influence.
Dickon’s finger traced a line.
"Suppliers," he said. "Contracts. Threats. Bribes. Quiet visits in the night."
He looked at his guards.
"All of it was working," he said. "Dawn House was bleeding slowly."
His voice dropped, dangerous.
"Then he comes back," he said. "Alive. Standing in the street. Throwing me into vegetables."
He clenched his fist.
Crack...
His knuckles popped.
The guards stayed silent. They could feel it. Dickon’s pride was not just wounded. It was infected.
Dickon’s eyes went distant, then focused like a blade.
"Rumors are not enough anymore," he said.
He stepped closer to the guards, voice calm now, which was far more frightening.
"I need him dead," he said. "Not missing. Not whispered about. Dead."
The first guard, still bleeding slightly, nodded quickly. "Yes, young master."
Dickon’s gaze sharpened.
"Dead in a way that cannot be questioned," he continued. "Dead in a way that makes Dawn House suffer publicly."
The second guard lifted his head slightly. "In the city, young master. There are rules."
Dickon’s smile returned again, slow and cruel.
"Then we do it outside the city," he said. "Or we do it in a way that looks like the city did not see."
He turned toward a side corridor and raised his voice.
"Bring me the rumor men," he ordered.
A servant flinched and hurried away.
Footsteps ran.
Tap tap tap tap...
Dickon stared ahead, breathing steady now, as if the anger had cooled into something sharper.
His guards remained tense.
Dickon spoke again, almost conversational.
"Two years," he said softly. "Two years I built his grave with words."
He looked over his shoulder.
"Now," he said, eyes bright and cold, "we will build it with blood."
The hall seemed colder after that.
Even the iron chandeliers felt like they were listening.
And somewhere in the city, while the rumor of cabbages spread like wildfire, Dickon Iron began planning the kind of death that would turn laughter into fear.
(Back to the Dawn House...)
Elena did not ask where. She simply followed.
That was how it had always been. When Sekhmet was small, Elena had been the one to pull him away from danger before he even realized he was in danger. When Sekhmet grew older, she became the one to pull him away from foolishness before it became regret.
Their footsteps carried them away from the noisy hall, away from the servant girls pretending not to listen, away from Bat Bat’s dramatic whispering about betrayal and jam.
Tap... tap... tap...