Splinter - Point Zero

Part 4

Suddenly the crowd ahead swayed menacingly. Shouts rang out: "Make way! Make way, commoners!"

People scattered, pressing themselves against the dirty walls of the houses. I barely had time to jump onto a flimsy wooden platform that served as a sidewalk here, as a carriage rushed past me.

A real, heavy carriage drawn by four black horses. Iron-rimmed wheels struck sparks from the cobblestones and scattered fans of liquid mud. On the box sat a coachman in a powdered (though very wet) wig and a livery with gold embroidery. He mercilessly whipped the horses' backs, completely uncaring that he might run someone over.

I managed to catch a glimpse of the coat of arms on the carriage door—crossed swords against the background of some animal, like a lion or a bear—and caught a brief look at the passenger's face. The sleek, haughty profile of a man in a white wig and an expensive velvet camisole. He wasn't even looking out the window, intently examining something in his hands.

The carriage sped by, leaving behind only the stench of horse sweat, a cloud of splashes, and the quiet curses of the crowd.

"Aristocracy," I muttered, shaking off a glob of mud that had flown from the wheels onto my sleeve.

«Exactly so,» EVA confirmed. «Social stratification in this world is highly pronounced. The upper classes sincerely believe that the commoners exist solely to pay taxes, applaud at parades, and generate bad mortality statistics. And you, my dear User, are currently at the very bottom of this food pyramid.»

"I got that already. Where are we going?"

«Straight ahead is the market square. Your three coins are burning a hole in your pocket. I've analyzed the local economy from snippets of conversation. Three coppers is very little, but enough to not die of starvation today.»

I merged into the stream of people, trying to stay close to the walls and pulling the collar of my holey rags over my head to protect myself from the rain at least a little.

Walking was hard. Despite the boost to Endurance, Splinter's body was disastrously weak. My feet in worn-out, clearly someone else's shoes that were about two sizes too big (I only kept them on my feet thanks to the dirty rags wrapped around them) kept slipping.

At one point, I was roughly shoved by a shoulder.

"Hey, Splinter! Why are you crawling like a pregnant louse?" barked a man with a twisted face, carrying a heavy wooden crate on his shoulder. "Get out of the way before I break your spine!"

I prudently stepped aside, letting him pass. So, they know me here. And they know me as something absolutely harmless and pathetic. Well, that's even to my advantage. Less attention means better chances of surviving until I figure out how things work here.

The market square of the Leatherworkers' Quarter turned out to be just a widening of the street, where dozens of crooked stalls were cobbled together right in the mud. The smell here was indescribable. The sour aroma of rawhide mixed with the stench of rotten fish, the smell of fried lard, stale booze, and the scent of cheap spices.

Life was boiling here. Merchants yelled, praising their questionable goods, buyers haggled fiercely over every copper, dogs howled somewhere, and by a leaning post, two guards in blue uniforms with muskets lazily watched the proceedings, smoking long pipes.

«Warning, User. Three attempted pickpocketings detected within a ten-meter radius. Keep your hands in your pockets and stay alert.»

I obediently shoved my hands into my pants, tightly gripping my three coins.

Approaching a stall that sold bread, I stopped. Behind a wooden board stood a stout, red-faced woman, looking like a mountain of dough wrapped in a dirty apron. On the counter lay fluffy white loaves (which I tried not to look at to avoid choking on my saliva) and wicker baskets with gray, rock-hard round loaves.

"What are you staring at, ragamuffin?" the merchant barked loudly, noticing my hypnotized gaze aimed at the baked goods. "Get lost before I call the guard! This isn't an almshouse!"

I took a deep breath, remembering that I wasn't a beaten-down teenager, but an adult man. I pulled my hand out of my pocket and placed the three coins on the edge of the counter.

"Bread. For all of it," I said hoarsely but firmly.

The merchant stopped mid-sentence. She looked suspiciously at the money, then at me. Apparently, Splinter with money was a rare phenomenon. Thick, sausage-like fingers deftly scooped up the coppers.

She rummaged in the farthest basket and dismissively tossed me a chunk of gray bread. It was stale, with broken edges and a suspicious greenish spot on the side.

"Get lost," she muttered, turning away to another customer.

I caught the bread on the fly. My fingers immediately dug into the hard crust.

«Product analysis complete. Gray bread, from yesterday (or the day before). Traces of ergot and mouse droppings present. It is recommended to break off the infected area before consumption.»

I pinched off the piece with the greenish coating without regret and threw it at my feet. Then I took a bite of the rest.

The bread was tough as a boot sole. I had to soften it with saliva for a long time before swallowing. But at that moment, I had never tasted anything better in my life. I walked slowly along the rows, biting off small pieces and chewing thoroughly so as not to overload my stomach, which had shrunk from a long fast.

Life was definitely starting to look up. I had food, I had a sarcastic but useful System in my head. All that was left was to find a warm place to sleep and figure out how to earn more money.

I had almost finished my ration when I noticed something wrong out of the corner of my eye.

A tall, sinewy man in a worn leather cloak detached himself from a stall selling some hardware. His face was disfigured by a scar crossing his left eye, and his gaze was heavy and piercing. And he was looking right at me.

More precisely, he was looking at me finishing my bread, and at the fact that I had neither weapons nor protection.

He took a step in my direction, casually resting his hand on the hilt of a long knife tucked into his wide belt.

«Warning, User. The object is showing aggressive intentions. Analysis: a low-level local thug. Looking for an easy target. The presence of a knife makes melee combat highly undesirable given your current stats.»

I can see that myself, I snapped mentally.

The scarred man smiled predatorily, baring rotten teeth, and quickened his pace, heading straight to intercept my path. The crowd, as if sensing a predator, parted before him, not wanting to get involved.

«Recommendation: tactical retreat. Simply put—run. With your Agility of 4, you have a 68% chance of losing him in the narrow alleys.»

I swallowed the last piece of bread, spun on the heels of my holey shoes, and, without hesitating for a second, dashed into the saving narrowness of the dirty slums