Zero's grand plan for the herb vendor dead drop felt significantly less brilliant when he was actually standing at the mouth of Blind Alley, clutching a satchel filled with tiny, painstakingly rolled scrolls and small, identical bundles of common thyme. The alley lived up to its name – narrow, perpetually shadowed by the leaning tenements on either side, and reeking of damp earth, stale refuse, and something acrid he couldn't quite identify. It was, he had to admit, atmospherically appropriate for a clandestine meeting point.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. This was it. Real-world interaction with a stranger, involving deception and convoluted instructions. What could possibly go wrong? Everything, his mind unhelpfully supplied.
The Blind Alley market was less a market and more a loose collection of dilapidated stalls and blankets spread on the grimy cobblestones, where vendors with furtive eyes sold dubious goods to desperate people. He located the herb stall easily enough – a rickety table piled with bunches of dried plants, presided over by a woman so ancient and wizened she looked like she might crumble into dust if the wind blew too hard. Her name, according to the scuttlebutt Zero had nervously gathered, was Old Agnes. She was, by all accounts, mostly deaf and entirely uninterested in anything beyond the exact coinage for her wares. Perfect.
Zero approached, his steps hesitant. Old Agnes didn't look up, her attention fixed on meticulously tying a bundle of something that looked suspiciously like common weeds.
"G-good day, Grandmother," Zero managed, his voice a squeak. He'd practiced his opening line – casual, yet with a hint of underlying purpose. It came out sounding like he was about to be sick.
Old Agnes continued tying.
Zero cleared his throat louder. "Grandmother Agnes?"
She finally looked up, her eyes like milky opals, unfocused. "Eh? Whazzat? Speak up, boy. Can't hear thunder over a field mouse's whisper these days."
This was going to be harder than he thought.
He took a deep breath. Be the Master. Calm. Enigmatic. He held up one of his pre-prepared thyme bundles. "I… I wish to purchase some… thyme."
"Thyme, is it?" She squinted at his bundle. "Got thyme. Good thyme. Two coppers."
"Yes! Excellent!" Zero fumbled for the coins, his hands slick with sweat. Now for the crucial part – explaining the coded phrase and the secret scroll system. How did one explain that to a deaf, ancient herb vendor without sounding like a complete lunatic?
"Also," he began, leaning closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially, which probably just made him harder to hear, "sometimes… people… special people… might come asking you a… a particular question."
Old Agnes blinked slowly. "Question? About herbs? Got all sorts. Good for coughs, good for sleep, good for warding off… unwanted attentions." She gave him a knowing, toothless grin that did nothing to ease his discomfort.
"No, not about herbs exactly," Zero pressed on, feeling a flush creep up his neck. "They might ask… 'Do the silent lilies bloom crimson in the deepest shade?'" He winced internally. Hearing it spoken aloud, it sounded even more preposterous.
"Lilies?" Old Agnes grunted. "Don't stock lilies. Bad for the joints, lilies are. Stick to thyme, boy. Good, honest thyme."
Zero was starting to sweat profusely. This was a disaster. He tried again, louder, slower. "If they say those words… you give them… one of these." He held up another of his special thyme bundles, the one with the tiny scroll tucked inside. "It's… a special blend. For them."
The old woman peered at the bundle, then at him, her expression unreadable. For a terrifying moment, Zero thought she was going to call the Watch, or perhaps just hit him with a bunch of dried nettles. Then, she shrugged her bony shoulders.
"Special blend, eh? If they got the coppers, they get the herbs. Don't care what fancy words they use. Two coppers." She gestured towards his satchel. "Gonna buy that lot, or just jaw all day?"
Relief, so potent it almost made him dizzy, washed over Zero. She hadn't understood a word of his convoluted plan, but she was willing to sell his thyme. That was… almost a success. He'd just have to sneak his 'special' bundles onto her stall when she wasn't looking, maybe mixed in with her regular stock. Yes, that was much simpler. Less talking.
He ended up buying five bundles of her actual thyme – to appear like a normal customer – and then, while she was distracted by another haggler, he managed to surreptitiously place a dozen of his own scroll-laden bundles amongst her wares, tucking them slightly out of sight. He then practically fled Blind Alley, his mission… vaguely accomplished? He had no idea if it would work, but the dead drop was, technically, set.
***
Anya moved with a quiet, deliberate pace through the less salubrious outer districts of Veridia. Her investigation of the Market Square drain cover and the discarded toy soldier had yielded no further insights. She'd concluded, after hours of patient observation, that while they fit her pattern of 'crimson' and 'shadowed eyes', they were likely just that – coincidences. The Path, she reasoned, would not be so easily deciphered from single instances. It would be a recurring motif, a hidden language woven through the city.
Her informant network – a carefully cultivated collection of street urchins and overlooked servants she occasionally paid for snippets of information – had been tasked with looking for unusual symbols, particularly anything resembling a bleeding eye, or mentions of anything 'crimson' in conjunction with shadows or silence.
One urchin, a sharp-eyed girl named Pip, had reported seeing a notice with a "funny red eye" in Blind Alley, near the Rag Market. An alley known for its "silent" transactions and its deep, perpetual gloom.
Intrigued, Anya made her way there. Blind Alley was even more depressing than its reputation suggested. The air was thick, the light meagre. She observed the stalls from a distance first, her gaze analytical. Most sold junk or barely edible food. Then she saw it – Old Agnes's herb stall.
And on that stall, amidst the bunches of common herbs, Anya's keen eyes spotted several small, identically wrapped bundles of thyme, tucked slightly back. What drew her attention wasn't the thyme itself, but the way they were tied – with a thin strand of distinctly crimson thread.
Crimson thread. On bundles of herbs known for their use in quiet remedies and folk magic, sold in an alley synonymous with silence and shadow.
This felt… different. More deliberate than a dropped toy or a random splash of colour. This felt like a sign. A subtle marker. Was this stall a point of contact? A place where messages were left or received by those who walked the Crimson Path? The herb thyme itself was often associated with courage in old folklore – courage needed to walk a dangerous path?
She watched the stall for a long while. She saw a nervous-looking young man in a cheap, ill-fitting cloak buy several bundles of thyme earlier, acting furtively. He'd even tried to place some of his own bundles on the stall when he thought the old vendor wasn't looking. His actions were clumsy, amateurish. A low-level operative, perhaps? Or someone trying to use the Path's network without proper authorization?
Anya didn't approach. She didn't speak the coded phrase she was now half-expecting. Not yet. This required more observation. But this stall, these crimson-tied bundles… this was the strongest lead she'd found so far. The Path was beginning to reveal itself, not through grand pronouncements, but through these quiet, easily overlooked details.
***
Barric, too, found his way to Blind Alley, though his reasoning was different. He'd been systematically searching areas known for being outside the Watch's usual patrol routes, places where illicit dealings or hidden truths might surface. An old comrade, now disgraced and working as a bouncer for a gambling den, had mentioned Blind Alley as a place "where you can find anything if you know who to ask, and where no one asks your name."
He wasn't looking for herbs. He was looking for information, for anyone who might have heard of a group fitting the notice's description, anyone displaying a 'Bleeding Eye'.
He saw the old herb vendor, Old Agnes, and the general squalor. He also noticed, with a soldier's eye for detail, several identically bundled packets of thyme, tied with a thin red thread. Red. Crimson. It was a tenuous link, but after days of fruitless searching, any potential sign was welcome.
Could this be it? A recognition signal? A way for members of this 'Crimson Path' to identify each other, or a place to receive instructions? He watched a thin, nervous fellow in a dark cloak making a purchase earlier, his movements shifty. Could he be a member?
Barric felt a stirring of something akin to hope. This felt less abstract than staring at Imperial crests. This was tangible. He decided he would return, observe this stall more closely. Perhaps try to purchase one of those red-threaded bundles himself and see what happened. It was a risk, but the promise of purpose, of a path with conviction, urged him forward.
***
Argent, meanwhile, had dismissed Blind Alley early in his theoretical model. Too obvious. Too… squalid for what he increasingly suspected was a psychologically sophisticated (if ultimately fraudulent) operation. He was currently observing a meeting of the 'Philosophical Discussion Society of Free Veridia' – a group of bored, minor nobles and self-proclaimed intellectuals who gathered weekly to debate esoteric nonsense. Their pamphlets sometimes used eye motifs, and their discussions often revolved around 'hidden truths' and 'paths to enlightenment.'
He watched them pontificate, his notebook filling with observations on their group dynamics, rhetorical fallacies, and shared delusions. Perhaps, he mused, the 'Crimson Path' is merely an offshoot of this drivel, a more… viscerally branded version of the same search for meaning in a meaningless universe.
He made a note: "Further analysis of linguistic patterns in philosophical society discourse versus 'Crimson Path' notice required." It was all very logical. And so far, utterly unproductive in finding anything genuinely shadowy or crimson.