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Sixteen, Forty Five, and Eleven. Each morning, somewhere within the two hours after sunrise, a staggering man of portly composition and bumbling dexterity would only just manage to ambulate the sixteen paces it was from his hovel's front door to unlock the wrought iron gate that sealed tight his life's work. Forty five sections made up the gate, each joined with incongruously stout rivets at eleven joints that gave the entire work a sideways lean that jarred callously with the room it was supposed to protect, which unfortunately leaned the opposite direction. The man would shuffle inside, lock the gate behind himself, and make his way slowly into the basement room where his research awaited. Each morning he would descend, but he never left.

At the bottom of the stairs, Anton unfastened the body suit and shrugged the ragged cloak free from his shoulders. He stood straight, cracking his back from the strain of his shuffled gait. There was work to do, and it gnawed at his gut worse than the three days since he'd last eaten anything of note. The room at the bottom of the stairs was empty, aside from a single wooden chair and the dust, dirt, and general mire of a long abandoned cellar. Eight feet to the left of the bannister he sank into the seat, relaxing his weakened body in the worn-smooth wood. After a time he closed his eyes, but her face leapt vivid with unfathomable brightness in his mind, and he gasped as a man plunged into icy water. Anton berated himself, glaring about the room with watery eyes. The darkness was absolute, and it was there for a reason.
Blinking through the water in his eyes, he stared into the darkness and remembered.

The shop above had the flamboyant title of a slum shop, renaming worthless junk as Veiled Mysteries. It was a ruse that fooled none, except perhaps the proud owner. Anton had walked through the shop three days prior, looking every part the pitiful beggar. He had spent exactly two minutes and thirteen seconds there before being chased away by the furor of a shopkeep for stealing a loaf of bread. The food was necessary, but so was the shop. Eyes closed, he reviewed each frame of memory in agonizing detail.

Fifteen pieces of eight on the shop counter, thirty five in the bag beside it. Two small salt wells from the eastern countries, from the middle of last century. Nine paintings were strewn across the walls, only two of any value, neither worth the effort of carrying them. Leaning against the counter, an elephant leg umbrella cache from the fifth century. Each item was worthless without the knowledge of their history, and who to sell to. The first five second frame had given insight to five sovereigns. Anton noted them each in turn, before continuing to the next five seconds.

Two hours later, he clambered up the abandoned coal chute to the alley beside the shop and stepped across the street. His hair was in a neat ponytail, beard braided and tucked over his left shoulder. His stride was confident, chin high, and he looked positively arrogant in the purple riding cloak he had taken from a small box just outside the coal chute. He knew from an interaction he witnessed last year that the man he was headed to was easily intimidated by pomp and money. Anton hoped that one of the two would be enough. His confident steps took him into the pub across the street and into a terse conversation with the barkeep, which happily ended with Anton perching himself rather huffily at an empty table with a tankard of beer and a fresh mutton sandwich.

He tried terribly to hide the ravenous hunger that overtook him a the smell of the food, managing to take small, unimpressed bites as he watched the room about him. He needed to find someone who needed information. But Anton was good at finding things.

Anton glanced across the room, eyes recording details despite his mind being otherwise occupied. The sandwich delighted his starved taste buds, but his memory always seemed to ruin these things. It had been a full two weeks since the last shipment of meat had come to this building. A quick rolodex of images flashed across his eyes of the area around the tavern from the days before. A lack of tracks on the ground from the local meat monger, the footsteps of the innkeep day by day in the dirty street. Each snapshot pieced together seamlessly a supply channel that had run dry. It wasn't a new thing, the unsteady resources; the town was rife with interrupted logistics. This mutton was well over a fortnight old. He had glanced up on his way in, automatically catching his surroundings out of habit. His mind now focused on the top most extent of the picture, where flies were just visible from that distance, buzzing up a small swarm from behind the tavern.

Anton's stomach was of fairly stern stuff, having lived on such food for so long. The taste of rot was missing, eliminated by salt cure and mustard. The bread was mostly fresh, only a day or two; he had recognized the baker's bootrpints on the street the day before.

His thoughts always ruined his meals, but he had long since grown used to eating food he knew too much about. Food was a mandatory part of life, unavoidable for most days. Other things, he could avoid when he knew too much about them.

That brought him to the man who had just entered. A casual glance let him look away while his minds eye slid frame by frame like some macabre crime scene presentation. The man's bespoke shoes were made by a high society cobbler. A closer look at the mental image betrayed the man's practiced gait. They were worn in the sole in such a way that was typical of an education on gentlemanly mannerisms. His coat bore the clean, inward triple stitch of a very specific, expensive tailor. The gloves were wrong, though, for one of his position. Gloves stained, especially the pure white that nobility preferred. As such, they were considered disposable to the rich. This man's were thick, well made, and fitted to his hands as if to last forever. Two could be attributed to simple affluence, but not the third. Anton didn't imagine they came off very often.

As the slides of his memory slid across his mind, it took only a moment to recognize the man's face. He was the son of a cruel man, who Anton had seen in passing in his travels. The same eyes, quick and with a darkness to them despite their outward color, eyes that his smile didn't really seem to reach. He was a dangerous man, this Cruel-man's-child. With fine, bespoke wardrobe and sour eyes. Every piece of gossip and news that contained his family name screamed past Anton's ears and eyes, and when he could take no more of it, he cleared his throat to silence his mind.

It was always impressive how much people would pay for information.

"Nay, good sir. This, I fear, would serve only to sully your finely tuned tastes. Pray, let me guide you to a meal heavy laden with the spirit and soul of the simple, but goodly people." He stepped slowly towards the door, making a wide gesture to welcome them outside. It was the practiced gesture of one well versed in dealing with those who saw themselves as quite above the squalor.

Anton's mind filled the gaps rapidly. Family names and connections slid into place on the datasheet before his eyes, piecing together the noble's life into a quick reference card.

The more he remembered about the man, the less he liked him.

But hey, people were always willing to pay for information, one way or another. Especially for information about a name such as this one.