Hydaelyn Role-Players

Cards lay spread over the pitted table, encircling the pile of gil that'd been haphazardly tossed into the center. The same pile of gil that was presently being drawn away from Zhavi while she stared down at her opponent's hand in pure disbelief. She'd had it. The winning hand had been hers. But, somehow, the churl across from her had slipped in a trick that shouldn't have been possible. Unless she'd miscounted. She frowned, glancing back at her own hand, slowly working through the length of the game through her own fuzzy memory. Nald's balls, did it matter? She'd lost. Losers didn't have rights to complain in Scuttlebutt, premier dive in Limsa Lominsa's lower decks. Beloved of gamblers and alcoholics, it was a tiny open air stall that changed location depending on day and which way the yellowjackets were pissing. It was the sort of place where you could always catch a game or five of whatever caught your fancy, be it by luck or skill.

It was the sort of place only locals knew about, given its lack of permanent location and no sign to declare it as anything more than a spontaneous gathering of layabouts and knaves. Its only constant was the father-daughter pair what run it, and them the most villainous looking of the lot.

So it'd been surprising to see the man sitting across from her join in. Zhi hadn't recognized him -- not altogether impossible, but being that she was a regular visitor to Scuttlebutt, unexpected -- and she hadn't seen anyone greet him with familiarity. Of course, she was also drunk. Drunk, and drained of most of the coin she'd brought with her. It'd been a pretty pile of winnings, too, enough to easily keep her drunk for the next two days. All gone.

Her tail twitched under the table as the jeers of the people watching the game started to flood in. They blurred and overlapped, a tangle of voices she couldn't put forth any effort to decipher, though she knew the insults from those who played regularly with her were flowing hard and fast. She grimaced and waved them off, slouching in her chair with her feet planted wide under the table: a tough little rat in her rough clothes and sarcastic smile. They ignored her brief attempts to silence them, some few who'd been early in the game calling for a rematch. Zhi had other things on her mind as she stared at the stranger.

"Hey," she said, voice loud over the din. "Winner buys a round. 'Stradition."

Her grin was cocky, as if she was entirely unaware of the loss she'd just suffered. As if she hadn't just lied through her teeth. Scuttlebutt's sole tradition was that cheaters who were caught got stomped by any number of enthusiastic volunteers. Not that the stranger would know that, of course.

Still 'ave it, Ossy. Five years gone and ye've still the knack.

The Scuttlebutt was crowded tonight, far more crowded than he'd ever seen it. Clearly, business was booming for the family what owned it, and he didn't grudge'm a single coin; they'd always been an accommodating sort, once he'd dropped enough gil on drink and deliberately lost enough hands at the tables to get'm t'open up to him. That had been long ago, when they'd just been getting started... but he hadn't forgotten. Good folks, those two, relatively speaking. As good as these streets could hope for.

Finding the place again hadn't proven difficult at all. He'd had to pester Thomys mercilessly for bells 'til the lad had led him here, but they'd found it, alright, just in time for him to turn around and give his brother a right tongue-lashing for hanging about such disreputable establishments. Hypocritical? Yes. But his brother'd be better off for it, all the same. He'd sent Thomys off home, then ordered a drink and sat down at the nearest table what offered him cards and fools enough to try their memory against his.

He'd just finished cleaning out some poor Keeper girl, and while he couldn't help but keep grinnin' like a fool at the thought o' the draw that had given him Coeurls over Snurbles, there was also the slight gut-wrenching twist of guilt from somewhere behind his ribs as he reached out with one arm and drew the pot across the table.

Idiot. Given half a chance, she'd clean you out, strip ye down 'til y'privvies be hanging in the wind, and try for a ransom to boot. Guilt? Idiot. 

The lass twitched and grimaced as she waved a hand to silence the jeers from the onlooking crowd, and sudden realization hit his gut like a wet net full o' trout.

Gods, she thinks I've sharped her.

Bile churned in his stomach and his throat went sour as it burned. He hated cardsharps. Leave a man his chance and his skills, was his take on gamblin'. Rig a game? He'd taken blood before for such insults. The idea that someone thought him a cardsharp... revolting.

Nymeia, grant me just one more favor t'night. Let me make it up to the lass.

"Hey. Winner buys a round. 'Stradition."

He chuckled, closed his eyes and sent up his thanks.

"Tradition?" Gobshite, that, but any port in a storm.

He opened his eyes and glanced at her, kept grinning like a fool.

"Sure. Why not?" He raised his voice, lifted his mug as he stood and waved it before him out over their audience. "Hells, make it two! Winnings'll cover it. Drinks are on the Keeper, boys!"

Zhi's mouth twisted to the side, feigning physical pain for her loss as those around them shouted their approval. A few hands reached out to slap her shoulders and upper back, mixing encouragement and sympathy together with their tumble of insults for her loss. She let them buffet her, ears going sideways and back. They ignored her, and she ignored them as she stared across the table. Free drink was always mollifying, and she let its promise lull her as the two wenches on duty set about ferrying drinks to the numerous customers.

Once she'd gulped the rest of the cheap swill she'd bought during a previous hand, she sat up and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "This y'first trip t'the city?"

Some of the crowd surrounding them had started to drift away without immediate promise of another game forthcoming, and drinks to boot. Some of those that remained reacted with snorts or suppressed (as much as drunks can suppress laughter) at her near-insult. Gadabouts weren't normally welcomed at Scuttlebutt, were usually looked down on and viewed with suspicion if they won too frequently -- but it was typically obvious when such tourists wandered in. It was a risk to make the assumption of this man, when he seemed to have made himself so cozy and comfortable, not a hair out of place. Maybe it was that attitude of his what set her fur on end and made the risk seem a right joy to take.

She showed her teeth in another smile, this one a sight more sleazy than the last.

...do I know this girl?

He kept one eye on her as he divvied up the hoard of gil into two piles, counting out coins and leaving just enough on the table for the wenches to collect, enough to cover his tribute to The Spinner. The crowd started breaking up; always a good sign, in his opinion. Nothing worse than a bar fight breaking out at times like these; commotions such as those made making off successfully with one's winnings very, very difficult.

Was it her very false - and yet impressively realistic - grimace? Was it the way her ears folded back over her head? Something about her was gnawing at him, like some elusive string dangling just beyond his reach that led... somewhere else. He felt like a kitten: every time he made a play for that tenuous connection, it slipped away, quick as a blue bird. He finally chose to ignore the string.

He went straight for the hand that held it, instead, claws extended, ready to draw blood.

There were three at the table when I sat down. Male highlander, dark hair with red highlights, dark skin, beard, likely military. Male Elezen, dour, long brown hair, probably pirate. Female-

"This y'first trip t'the city?"

He had to work very, very hard to keep the smile on his face from deteriorating into a lip-curling snarl.

Such a question was an affront on several levels. First, the implication that he was not native, made to ostracize him, to turn the other patrons against him. Second, the implication that, if he was in fact a native, he came off as a foreigner, with all that that implied: gods-awful at cards, with terrible manners and a complete lack of respect for the hardships of the gutter. Third-

Quit it. Focus. She's tryin' t'piss you off, so don't give'r the satisfaction. Don't give away the game.

Give away the...? Please. This skag is ten years too early t'put one over me. How old are ye, lass? Seventeen, eighteen at most...? 

That was when she flashed him the most disturbingly mangled smile he'd ever seen. He nearly groaned.

She's drunk. Lovely.

FOCUS!

Alrigh', alrigh'. Highlander, former Flame, maybe Maelstrom. Elezen, pirate... captain? Pirate captain. Miqo'te, short, scrawny, with a-

He blinked.

Ah. Ahhhhh. This explains a lot.

It also explained why she hadn't recognized him. Of course she wouldn't have; she'd have been, what, fourteen when he had skipped town? And how likely was anyone, really, to recognize him now in his current get-up? He'd made the right choice, it seemed, in changing his clothes upon arriving at the docks the other day; he had broken into his duffle bag, right then and there, and had swapped out the red cotton shirt and black-trimmed leathers of his uniform for the usual dull brown attire of pirates and privateers everywhere. He'd even swapped out his mask-and-turban for a bandana; he'd figured it'd be less conspicuous.

No one had recognized him since his arrival, other than his folks and a few yellowjackets who had strict orders to not touch him. Coupled with his long absence, this disguise of his had been more than adequate to dispel any ideas. Osric Melkire was dead, in the eyes of Limsa Lominsa; he had been for five years.

He finished scooping the last of his gil into his coin-purse, secured that in a belt pouch, then sat down again, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, flashing her a rictus of his own.

"Mayhap 'tis... but y'know better, don'tcha, Kink?"

Most of Zhi's weight was on her elbows as she folded her arms, her grin fading. Someone was heckling her from behind, taking hold of her left shoulder and shaking her. Her tail lashed side to side twice before she curled it around her thigh.

"Y'knew this blaggart? Why didn'tcha say summat! Tch, youngsters these days." The hand moved to her head, ruffling her hair.

The shaking stirred up the alcohol in her stomach, and she belched in the direction of that insufferable smile before ducking out from under the hand. She scowled over her shoulder at its owner, voice going high and whiny. "Aie, Faller, save th'gropin' fer yer wife."

She froze, words barely past her lips, as realization hit her. The scrag knew her? She faced him again, taking him in slow -- from the bandana to the boots he'd propped up on the table. No. She didn't know him.

"Y'ain't got naught t'grope, lass! Th'sot what tries t'grope ye'd be mistakin' ye fer a lad, mark me words!"

Zhi ignored Faller as he and his crew laughed, and narrowed her eyes at the man across the table. Why would he -- oh, of course. She'd planned on taking it easy that night, see what new rumors she could take, but. . . As she thought over whether or not to take it, she picked half-heartedly at a scab on her arm, working through her buzz to determine whether or not the take would be worth it. In the end, greed won out. Work was work.

"Yayabuko send ye? If that's how y'introduce yerself, I'll be takin' an extra fee fer me lost gil. Hey, scram," she turned and made shooing motions towards Faller and the few who remained around the table. "Go drink yer booze, I gots dealin' t'do."

Faller's first mate dragged him off, though not before getting one last cuff in on Zhi's ears -- she was something like a mascot for Faller's crew, along with a few of the other regulars; she'd been coming to Scuttlebutt since she was a snot-nosed brat, and many of them seemed blind to the fact that she wasn't a snot nosed brat any longer. Still, she tolerated it. Tongues got loose around snot-nosed brats, and she had no qualms with taking advantage of their easygoing affection.

With better things to do then listen to Zhi try out her patter on some new customer, the rest also started to turn away, leaving her and the stranger alone in a sea of gambling and vice.

Faller, Faller... Orobons? No, no... Ziz. No. Gods, why can't I remember which gang he ran with?

Because your memory's only good for counting. You're shite with faces, and y'know it.

He sat back, content to look on as she chided the man for his grubby fingers. Gil in his pocket, drink in hand, and Limsa Lominsa's finest entertainment before him. He missed this. He missed this a lot. Then she turned to him, and the night, if it was even possible, took a turn for the better.

"Yayabuko send ye? If that's how y'introduce yerself, I'll be takin' an extra fee fer me lost gil."

Yayabuko? Who was Yayabuko? And what bloody fee was she on about, anyh-

Oh, sweet Menphina. The Sparrow's turned fence? And she thinks I'm buyin'? Oh, piss 'n' blood, this is too good. This is gods-damned golden.

His cheeks were burning as he bit down on a surging bubble of laughter. They'd likely take the flush for drink, and leave it at that, which suited him just fine, because he was too busy considering his options to bother with worrying over something as trivial as his bloomin' facial expressions.

Do I correct her, or do I play along? Loathe to spend the gil I just won, that's a drunken night at the least. The hells would I even want to kno-

Oh, there was definitely something he wanted to know. Something which he'd normally have no way of knowing. Information he couldn't get at through his regular channels. Oh, but this was a dangerous game to be playin', and the table he'd be sitting down to was laden with all manner o' knives.

Risk naught, win squat. 

He dropped his boots to the floor and sat forward, the front legs of his chair slamming down. He took a swig from his mug and eyed Kink over the brim.

"Extra's a mite unkind, eh? Seeing as how I won fair 'n' square, kept my trap shut, bought drinks, all graceful like, and 'ere y'are, all pissy 'n' shite, all but callin' me a gadabout. I'd rather not have t'be goin' back empty-handed, tellin' Yayabuko that ye done tried t'rinse me purse for y'own vindictiveness."

He put his mug down, slid it to one side, rested his elbows on the table, and steepled his hands. 

"So. Ye dealin', or am I walkin'?"

"Tch." Her upper lip curled as he sat proper and spoke. She was on the verge of saying something likely regrettable when one of the barmaids arrived, bringing another drink for the man and for Zhavi. The wench dipped into a half-curtsey for him before sweeping up the coin into her apron. Like any good worker, she was there and gone in the time it took to spit, without fuss. If only employers could be so circumspect.

Zhi heaved a huge sigh, the finger picking at the scab on her arm digging into the flesh there: it was the main sign of her annoyance as she considered the man's words.

"'Malready in th'shitter wi'Yayabuko. Wouldn't surprise me none if he saw t'hand me somethin' crooked none else was bitin' at. So let's cut th'pissin' contest an'talk plain, fancy?"

The scab came off. Zhi flicked it sideways.

"Y'came t'deal, but saw a chance t'pit yerself against me. That means y'want t'play games -- big man wi'yer big stones, up against a runner, hey? But see, churls what mix their business an' pleasure tend t'think they can take all sorts o'shit out on their hired men. So either y'know what yer doin' an' yer thinkin' t'roll me, or yer some gadabout lookin' fer a thrill in the city."

Blood was welling in the space left behind from the scab.

"I ain't a scrag what gets rolled, rutterkin. So, yeah, y'gonna play by street rules, don't be gawpin' at me when I play back."

She bared her fangs in a brief, hard smile.

"Fifty gil fer new clients, seventy in yer case. I contract per moonspan, y'set yer targets, I agree, when I meet 'em it's two hunnerd an' fifty. If I don't meet 'em, I don't get paid. If y'contract fer more'n one moonspan at once I'll take half up front, rest paid per moonspan like normal. If the job's dangerous, rates go up another hunnerd. 'Mcheaper'n most, an' I do rougher work'n most -- if Yayabuko gave ye me name, like as not 'cause it's summat rough. He ain't sweet on me, but that'll mean y'ain't got many options. An' I ain't gotten me reputation by gettin' played an' takin' it up th'bunghole, fancy?" She tapped her knuckle on the table, hard.

"So tell me, we dealin'?"

He stopped grinnin' like a fool. He sat there and stared at her, long and hard. Thinkin'. Considerin'. Tugging at one earlobe. Call, raise, or fold?

Raise.

"We're dealin'."

He reached for the smallest of his three belt pouches.

Ossy, what in the seven hells are y'doing? That's all your savings.

I have to know.

He wrapped his hand around the throat of the small bag inside.

No, you don't. The lass is a rumormonger. If she finds out who y'are, she'll sell ye t'the Admiralty, sure as the sun shines midday.

Worth the risk.

He came up with the bag...

No, it ain't. How are you going to explain to Her Lady Grace why you didn't make the rendezvous with the Heaven's Gate in three days' time? Why you had to go into hiding, or worse, flee the city? Why you were skint broke and couldn't smuggle y'self off Vylbrand?

How are you going to explain to Andralyn that there was no pardon?

...and dropped it on the table, where it rang out with the ubiquitous clinking rattle of...

"Ten thousand gil in Allagan bronze pieces."

Every eye in the Scuttlebutt was drawn his way. Chairs squeaked and tables groaned. The bar went silent.

He dug under his shirt for the sheath that was secluded there, drew his knife in a reverse grip, and slammed it point-first down into the tabletop. Loudly. The whole thing took no more than a second.

Every eye in the Scuttlebutt suddenly found somewhere else to be lookin'. Mercifully, there was no further noise from the furniture.

He pinned Kink to her seat with his gaze.

"Twenty more when the job's done."

As if I ain't going t'roll you on that score.

"That's thirty thou in total."

More than I made in six years' worth of wetwork. Hopefully more than a fence can make in one.

"I sail for Thanalan in three days' time. My employers are expecting me back in Ul'dah by then. I'm to have the information on my tongue, or else lose my tongue."

He leaned forward and bared his own teeth in a savage facsimile of his erstwhile grin.

"That said, 'summat rough' doesn't even begin to describe it, lass, because the answers that I'm after aren't known t'anyone outside the Maelstrom. And therein lies the catch. Yes, I'm trying t'roll you, but only insofar as the difficulties involved. Most'd fail, but Yayabuko said y'were the best, so here I am."

He pulled his knife out from the wooden table.

"A warning, girl: don't try your hand at rollin' me. I may not have any fences in m'pockets, but I know cleaners aplenty, here in Limsa. Let's not add to their growing list o' deaders. So. Thirty thou. Three days. You report directly to me at my inn-room door, not to Yayabuko. Y'roll me, y'bleed. Those are my terms and conditions, Dax."

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Zhi nearly choked when he named the price, loud enough to be heard all the way to the Gate and back. Was he stupid? Was he crazy? Maybe he was a gadabout, because he didn't even seem to be affected when eyes turned to them, when it became obvious that everyone in the rutting street would be listening to them now.

Breathe.

He didn't stop. He made it worse.

Breathe.

He was naming things. Places. A stake.

Breathe.

Yayabuko? Thirty thou? The best? Her? Her breath came out in a rush. She couldn't help it. She was laughing, as much from hysterics as to put off the dogs this rutting guttersnipe of a man had just unleashed. On him, on her, on who else the gods could only know. That sort of money was way above her. The best? Arrogant, cocky churl she might be, but she wasn't so stupid to go parading that around, and Yayabuko would put her in the sea himself before he ever let those words cross his lips, especially when that much gil was on the line. Not to mention --

He called her Dax.

She stopped breathing. Everything stopped. There was a roaring sound in her ears. Her tail curled under, pressed to the bottom of the chair, and for a moment she was staring fear in the eyes. Oh. Nald'thal hadn't just tipped her scale, he'd broken the rotten thing. For a moment, as she stared at the man who knew her too well, she was back in Galine's room. She was seventeen, and she was learning how the world worked through the voice and the hands of one tiny, ruthless lalafell.

She was never going back. Never. Not ever. It was that thought more than anything that snapped her out of it, though she didn't dare lift her hands from the table. She was shaking. Adrenaline pumped through her, mixing with the alcohol. Some of it was burned away, but she was still drunk. Even so, even then, she knew she had to move. Had a runner already slipped away? Galine would know in a matter of hours, that was a given. How about the Skites? Oh, aye, she'd paid her dues on time like she always did to work the territory that she worked, but she was not cleared for that much money. And doing business like that in someone else's territory without clearing it? True, it wasn't a lot for the gangs, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it was their territory, and anyone who cheated them had to be taught a lesson.

A beating was the least she'd get.

She had to get ahead of it now. Was he with Agha? Most likely. But it wasn't like one of them to get one of the other gangs to do their dirty work. The Skites were two zones outside of their territory, even. Zhi had been careful. She was always careful. Retribution, then? The gangs took their blood rites, their honor, seriously. Galine had settled it. Not for this man, clearly.

She stood up. "Y'meant three thou, y'ruttin' dog. Yer high. I ain't doin' no job fer thirty thou."

Oh, they'd not be put off by that. It was a stalling tactic. It wouldn't last for long, and she needed some time to feel this one out, to get out. In the meantime, she had to hope that none present knew the significance of that name: Dax. Hope? Hah.

"Follow me, y'fool sot. I'll get ye sorted on th'matter o'business in lowtown."

She stood, hooked her thumbs through her belt to stop her hands from shaking, and started walking out of Scuttlebutt. If he didn't follow, he didn't follow. She couldn't help that. But she had to get out now. If the man followed her, she'd duck into an alley half a block down from Scuttlebutt, and slow to see if he was comin' after her, but she wouldn't stop.

She caught Faller's eye on the way out, and the two sized each other up as they passed. He lifted his drink to her. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were hard and flat. They were the eyes of a businessman tallying up the take.

Affection never lasted long in Limsa Lominsa.

He gave her a ten-count, then followed, scooping his duffel bag up off the floor beneath his chair and the moneybag up off the table with all the aplomb of a firefly amongst the coeurls. The duffel went over his shoulder by the strap, and the moneybag went back into its pouch, freeing up the knife he still carried in his right hand.
 
Osric knew as well as Kink did that he had just called down the entire undercity of Limsa Lominsa on their heads.
 
He wheeled about on his way out, just as he was passing the last of the tables, pivoting on one foot to face the Scuttlebutt patrons, and he threw his arms out wide to address them. He gave them the grin again, the one that said, this man is an idiot and an easy mark.
 
"Ladies and gentlemen! I am a professional, looking to do business! This is an open offer, so please! Should anyone wish to try their hands at thirty thousand - that's four zeroes for thems what can count - please come and see me! Room 23 at Baderon's!"
 
The tension that suddenly ratcheted throughout the stall was palpable. Baderon's was the Drowning Wench, and 'twas the Wench what was more o' less the lifeline 'tween the well-to-do's of the upper decks and the scum of the lower. Service flowed up and gil sank down there like nowhere else, and for that reason the gangs had collectively ruled Baderon Tenfinger's reputable establishment as off-limits. That meant no rinsin', no rollin', and no cleanin' on the premises. That included the Mizzenmast Inn.
 
Gods help the fool what broke rank on that.
 
Only three types of individuals were ever granted the privilege of rooms at the Mizzenmast: the influential, the wealthy, and the 'venturers. This man was too foolish to be of any import or influence, and he was clearly no 'venturer... which meant he had to be wealthy, or acting on behalf of the wealthy. Lent a certain credibility to his claim of employment in Ul'dah. Monetarists? Syndicate, perhaps? Someone was sending to Limsa for gossip.... and that someone was willing to pay.
 
He bowed with a smile, then turned on one heel and started after Kink again.
 
The next few bells will be the worst.
 
The runners were like as not more'n halfway to their respective barons by now; their seconds would be carrying his parting words back shortly, if they hadn't started out already. The tails would be stickin' as close to him as possible, and the bold ones - the young, the desperate, the independents - would be trying for his throat, hoping to settle for an easy ten thou.
 
Follow Kink. Give her the particulars. Lose the tails 'n' head for the Wench. Deal with any upstarts on the way. Sneak into Room 23 and evict whoever's stayin' there. Wait for contact. Make false promises, then boot them out the door. Change into m'Flames uniform, sneak out the window and make for the Aegis.  
 
Easy. Nothing was ever easy.
 
False promises... it had to be Kink. Thirty thou was nothin' in the long run to the gangs; they'd take his coin and come back empty-handed... but to an individual? To a lowlife fence who was just dealin' enough to make ends meet? He remembered what it was like, bein' poor and destitute, so he'd chosen to light a fire under her ass.  
 
It has to be her. She's the only one who might, just might, be able get me some gods-damned answers.
 
He'd given her no choice in the matter. She'd lose out, most ways, and lose out big.
 
"Ran like a yellow-bellied eft, she did, scared little shite."
 
"Bowed her head 'n' folded her ears to the barons, aye. No guts t'be found there."
 
"Kink? Botched a job tryin' her hand at getting into the Maelstrom's papers. Incompetent dyke."
 
"Tried 'n' failed to cheat the gangs, her. What they did t'her after...."
 
All paths but one led to a sullied reputation... or worse. No, to his mind's eye, her only way out was to sit down to the table and play. Play, and win it all. This was a high-stakes game, and the table was laden with knives.
 
Your turn, Sparrow. Pull me aside, even if only 'cause y'so rightfully pissed at me.  
 
 
 
 

The door to the bilge swung open.
 
Thunk.
 
Seated in the muck, back against the hull, was a ragged youth. His unkempt hair fell down in strands over his face; his clothes, such as they could be considered clothes, were torn twelve ways to the seven hells; and he was caked in the disgusting sewage what came with a moon's voyage at sea down here in the bilge.
 
Thunk.
 
The lad drew the knife from the wood between his feet, then chucked it down again, burying the tip of the blade in the floorboards.
 
Thunk.
 
"Dirk. I need you."
 
The boy looked up and smiled.  

He entered the sidestreet behind Zhi, and she gave him a long, hard look. "Ye wanted me attention, ye got it. Along wi'half th'city." The last was a mutter. The next word was a bark of sound: curt, but devoid of any obvious emotion. "Talk."

She turned to walk forward, presenting him with her back. It went against every ingrained instinct, but if he'd wanted to kill her himself there were numerous less complicated avenues he could have taken for that. Whatever it was he sought from her, whatever end, it was something that spelled plotting. Maybe she was just a happy coincidence, an opportunity that had lead towards squelching her without bringing the wrath of Agha down on his head. Or maybe it was a different enemy (though she doubted it, but within the realm of possibility), a different contact from a different life, back when --

She stopped that thought. Didn't care to think on it, didn't really matter. She'd a problem on her hands, and weren't no use playing at jacks. The only thing to do was move forward and deal with it. She was good at that.

"You first."

Yer an idiot yer an idiot yer an idiot yer an idiot

He fell in step behind her, and took the plunge.

"How much do you know about Merlwyb's Ghost?"

I have to know.

Have to.

"Oh, no," she whirled on him. She was still walking, just backwards. "Don't ye start up wi' that crock o' scraps. Ye been dancin' a right fancy step since ye sat at me table, an' I'll not be havin' yer games, not after that." She pointed in the general direction of Scuttlebutt. Her voice had gone cold. "Ye want t'see me keelhauled? A'right, that's fair. But that ain't how ye see it done in this town, an' ye should be keen on that if ye've th'gall t'name me Dax. Y'lost yer chance t'play gadabout, an' yer a fool an' a dog twice over if ye think I'll roll over'n bare me throat t'the likes of ye."

For a moment, she dug her rear heel in and took a step forward in his direction, eyes hard as she stared up at him. As quickly, she spun and moved away from him, taking a right turn at the T-shaped intersection at the end of the side street.

Shite. Maybe I should've just played it safe 'n' named her Pinch.

He broke into a brisk walk and made for the end of the sidestreet.

"Aight, I was more'n a mite unkind, what with keel-"

He rounded the turn to find another T-shaped intersection, not five fulms ahead of him; he rounded the turn just in time to catch the end of a tail slip the far corner off to the left. He scowled and went after her.

"...keelhaulin' ye, and f'that, I'm sorry."

Turn. Another intersection, another couple o' branches. Tail. Left again. Large 'nough for three t'walk abreast. He could see her now, just ahead of him, head down and double-timin' it down this long sidestreet, headin' for the border. The territory's border.

She not cleared to work it or somethin'? Gods.

"But I ain't askin' ye to bare y'throat anymore than I'm barin' m'own for the Syndicate... and the coin? I'm good for it, honest t'Nald, I am."

Takin' a right again. Short alley again.

"The Ghost's a myth, aye... but the man's not."

A left. Two abreast, here.

Bloody hells, these are getting tighter. I'm small, but I'm not that small!

"Must've been a man, what with closin' down the whole ruttin' city. No one in, no one out? For four moons? Don't tell me that don't stink o' rotten fisheyes."

Right. Alley. One across.

"What I need, the 'strom has on paper. All I need is the man's names, Kink."

His names. My names. Which ones do they have? Which ones are still safe?

The next turn brought him to a dead end. No doors, no windows, no gutters or drops or sidestreets, no nothin'.

The Keeper was gone.

He put his back to the slick oily wetness of a marble wall and slid down 'til his ass 'n' his duffel hit the stone floor, resting his elbows on his knees. Once, twice, three times he rapped the back of his head against the marble.

"Jus' his names."

Do they have them? All of them?

Do they have the only one that matters?

People never learned to look up. That was the reason that Zhi had focused on her climbing ability when she was younger, the reason why she engaged in it daily. She crouched in a narrow window sill, back to the dilapidated shutters that had been pulled shut and, to her knowledge, hid from view either an abandoned home or a squatter's current residence. She looked down on the man and grinned. It wasn't for whatever emotional vicissitude she felt, but rather a need to expel the anxiety and adrenaline that'd followed her all the way from Scuttlebutt. She probably looked an ugly form of deranged, but no matter. Zhi'd never bothered with pretty. That was something only doxies needed to worry over, and she sure as shit wasn't a doxy.

She considered her options. There were things she wanted to know, aye, but there were consequences for stepping outside the acknowledged parameters of the game. She wasn't so hot about facing those consequences, not even with the Skites like as not to come breathing down her neck, and Galine -- aie, Galine. The smile wavered, but not for long. This man wasn't one of Agha's. If he was, then standards had sure slipped something fierce since she'd been a member, and knowing Agha. . .that wasn't so likely.

"A'right, Clodhopper, here's the rules. Ye'll pay me standard rates, plus an extra three hunnerd gil fer the shite yer drownin' me in." Even if she took his money, thanks to his public announcement she'd never be able to spend it in any way that mattered, not without leaving the city. As it was she was going to have to lay low for oh, the next forever, until people forgot or some other toy was dangled for their fancy. The Skites were like as not to hold a grudge for the next year or two, depended on how things played out. Zhi was not the hunted. If she was gonna earn her way, she'd do it the right way -- not looking over her shoulder for the next couple of years hoping no one found her secret stash of gil.

"Ye pay me half up front. Ye ever approach me like that again, I'll find me own way t'get yer stain out o'the city. Ye get yerself off t'somewhere real quiet, and ye don't spit out a word t'anyone else until ye haul out o'here. Stupid as y'are, I don't want t'risk me hide on yer floppin' tongue.

"An' ye'll tell me, now, what ye know about where th'paper's like t'be -- whatever word ye got, I'll take. Three days is tight, would be tight even fer a top player. After that, I'll meet ye three days from now aboard Her Highness. Ask th'fishin' guild where 'tis if ye don't know. If I don't meet ye, then consider me dead or in irons."

She would ditch the job in its entirety, but she'd need the money for expenses. Fresh jobs from her usual squeezes were going to be slim for the next few months. Very slim.