City of Dreams and Nightmare by Ian Whates

excellent memory for customers’ preferences – but he said it anyway.
    He sipped, sampling the bitter hit of the tar-dark brew on his palate and savouring the heat as it slid down his throat.
    Dewar could still remember when the coffee seller first arrived in Thaiburley, perhaps taking a particular interest because Haruk was, like himself, so obviously a foreigner. The man’s tanned and weathered skin would have marked him instantly as such against the sallow complexions of the City Below natives even had he not possessed a pair of tribal scars beneath his left eye. This stranger, this outsider, had the audacity to try and set up business on the fringe of the market, much to the chagrin of the established stallholders.
    That first day had ended in a beating, with Haruk chased from the market square. But the next morning he was back, setting up a little off-market this time, in one of the broader streets leading to the square. People stopped to drink on their way through and evidently liked what they drank. That day too had ended with a beating and the stall kicked down, its candy-striped awning ripped and trampled.
    Surely this would have been enough for most men, but the coffee seller was nothing if not persistent, and the next morning found him in the same spot, the stall rebuilt and its awning cleaned, stitched together and defiantly back in place. Those who enjoyed his brew the previous morning did so again, and they were joined by others.
    Dewar appreciated the man’s resolute single-mindedness. He never seemed willing to accept defeat, always bouncing back no matter how frequent and forceful the discouragement. The assassin could not help but admire such determination, and he watched events unfold with relish and a growing respect. Not least, of course, because Haruk did happen to brew the best coffee around. Steadily, this stubborn outsider established his presence, initially earning tolerance and eventually grudging acceptance.
    Now, years later, Haruk’s stall was an accepted part of the scenery. He was doubtless paying his dues to the local street-nicks and doing all the things that any resident of the streets was required to do. He had even branched out, providing at first crisp, dark biscuits and then adding small honeyed pastries as tempting accompaniment to the coffee. The area around his pitch had also gained a few rickety chairs and uneven tables along the way, an invitation for customers to rest their weary feet and their drinks, perhaps even to linger and enjoy a further cup or two. The furniture was arranged haphazardly in front of the stall, spreading into the street beyond like a pool of spilt milk.
    Dewar took another sip, aware that Martha was now late, but that didn’t bother him. It was deliberate no doubt; her way of making a statement, of showing that she was still her own woman. Such minor rebellion was irrelevant. She would arrive soon enough and that was all that mattered.
    Martha was not Dewar’s only contact here. He had been busy since returning to the streets, tapping old sources, not all of whom seemed overly pleased to see him. Doubtless some had assumed that his ascension to the City Above meant they were rid of him; if so, this morning must have come as something of a disappointment to them. One or two were reluctant to talk to him at all, but a modicum of gentle persuasion soon convinced these bashful souls that soft living had done little to change him and that reticence was not in the best interests of their health.
    Much of what he learnt as a result proved far more interesting than anticipated, if incomplete and tantalising. No one seemed sure of what was going on, though a few were willing to share their pet theories which Dewar dismissed as unfounded, unlikely and distracting. It was all whispers, isolated fact, overheard rumour and half-baked conjecture, but once all these elusive threads were pulled together, what emerged was distinctly disturbing, crackpot theories aside.