The Informant's Price

The air in Dmitri’s usual haunt, a cramped room above a fishmonger’s that reeked of brine and desperation, was thicker than usual. It clung to the back of my throat, a cloying mix of cheap tobacco and the stale sweat of too many anxious men. Dmitri himself, a ferret of a man with darting eyes and a perpetual twitch at the corner of his mouth, was perched on an overturned crate, polishing a tarnished silver locket with a grubby thumb. He looked up as I entered, a flicker of something that might have been surprise, or perhaps just annoyance, crossing his face.

“Anya. To what do I owe this… pleasure?” His voice was a gravelly whisper, as if the very walls had ears. He gestured vaguely with the locket towards a rickety chair.

I ignored the invitation, my gaze sweeping the room. Empty, save for him and the ghosts of countless transactions. Good. I didn’t need an audience for this. “Information, Dmitri. The kind you trade in.”