---
Raka almost smiled. There it was. It was not an honor. It was not loyalty. Not principle either.
It was the proper language of the lower world. He named a number.
The cutpurse's eyes widened.
Another man at the wall said, "For one run."
"For joining," Raka said. "More if you're useful."
A woman with burn scars across both wrists folded her arms. "And if Iron House offers more."
Raka looked at her. "Then take it and die richer."
That got a few ugly laughs.
Laughter loosened fear enough that greed could start doing the rest of the work.
He moved through them after that, not like a speaker on a platform, but like a predator among possible tools. He named names. Called out old cowards. Reminded certain men exactly who had ruled the underground market for years. He offered money to one. Threatened another. Made one little gang leader kneel by the simple act of describing, in calm detail, what would happen if he sold even one route to Iron House.
