Chapter 8: Guilt of the innocent, innocent of guilt.
Saleg hated this.
"It's the only way," Nine-Toes had told him before the first time. "You have to do this. You have to build your reputation."
He took the turn down the alleyway, and approached Valadin. "Valadeen, Valadeen, Valadeen," he said, purposefully mispronouncing his name. He remembered how much Valadin hated that. "I got you three vials of skooma. Fronted you some of my hard-earned cash." He stressed the hard-earned part. "I check back with you, and you tell me you can only pay me for two. Tell me you'll come up with the cash." At this point he picked Valadin up by his shirt. He worried that the shirt might rip, breaking the picturesque scene. To his credit, Valadin looked as though he might piss himself.
"S...Saleg. I need more time. Just a few more d…days."
"I work independent, you see." He flashed the toothy grin that he learned over the past three months could scare a lot more than any grimace. Make them feel like you could do anything, including smile in the midst of a shakedown. Make them think you just might be insane "When I lose money, I don't have anyone to stave off the cost. I gotta eat into my... spending money." He turned his face into a deep, intimidating grimace. "So you can see why I don't like losing my money." Saleg dropped Valadin.
"Just a few more days. I'm begging you! Please!"
"When I lose money, I get an urge to cut something." Saleg drew his dagger, stained with the dried blood of others who had stiffed him, as well as a few rivals.
"Please, no! A few more days, and I'll get your money!"
Saleg leaned down, rubbing his dagger on the face of "his" addict. It was amazing, even to him, how possessive he had become on the matter of people. He refused to traffic in slaves, but treated these people he had in thrall as if that was exactly what they were. He ended his quiet introspection by leaning in to the weak addict, quickly grabbing one of his fingers, breaking it, and then making a quick chop. He had worked the gruesome task into an art, making it flow as though all these acts were joined as one.
"You have two days before it's a hand I add to my collection," he said, putting the finger in a small pouch after wrapping it in a bandanna. "I don't like doing this, Valadin. But I absolutely despise losing money. Two days. No more." He flashed that toothy grin yet again, sheathing his dagger. "Pleasure doing business with you."
He returned to the home he kept on the poor side of town. He waited until he shut and barred the door before collapsing on the floor, sobbing quietly. He hated this. At one point, he had been on the other side of that sort of exchange. He rubbed the scar down the side of his arm, before picking up his pouch and throwing it to the other side of the room. When the pouch flew open and he was forced to come face-to-face with the evidence of his crime yet again, his sobbing became more intense. He was disgusted. He felt his stomach churn at the very thought of doing it again. But he had two more people to shake down. He crawled to the bin near the bed, and threw up. He didn't know how long he could keep this up. The only thing he could think about was how good an actor he had become. He crawled into bed, and curled up into a ball.
"Damn the Blades," he said to no one in particular. "Damn my cover. To hell with all of this. I'm done."
He closed his eyes.