Two men entered the smoky shop. They walked between the cramped shelves, crossing around the back: no back doors, no customers. The grey and the midlander were the last ones in or out.
One of the men walked back to the door and leaned against its frame, looking out. The other approached the owner then. He rapped his knuckles lightly against the wooden counter and spoke. "A man'll be walkin' in 'ere soon. Don't talk. If 'e speaks, jus' listen. If 'e don't, still listen. 'E likes this place an' 'e pays handsome, what's more." He whistled at his partner then, who opened the door and stepped outside, holding it behind him. "Golden opportunity, this 'un. Yessir, jus' don't screw it up." And he walked out the door.
A short, robed figure stepped through the door and into that thick, smoky silence. Lalafell most like, by the gait. It walked the aisles, examining the carvings of rich wood, the huge jars of dank, pungent leaves. It circled back around to the front of the shop. A voice crawled out from under the hood. It was deeper than expected. Raspier, too.
"Your books, they're in the back?"
Don't talk. The owner nodded.
"You know why I'm here?"
He nodded again.
"You've received other offers?" Don't talk. "Mine's better."
He walked to the door. Without turning, he spoke once more. "Both, so we're clear: book and girl."
The door closed behind him.
______________
Styrm carried Brindle from house to hole to hovel, unaware in his exhaustion, his single-minded focus on finding the next clue, eyes ever forward. He never thought to turn around.
Behind him, throughout the night, a man followed. Nondescript, quiet, if more than a little nervous, he let himself be led from place to wretched place. He was tired, he was annoyed, he was bored, but still he followed. He couldn't go back, not without something--anything--to report.
He wondered if he shouldn't try to throw the roe off, pick off the kid somehow. But the boss had told him to leave the big man alone. He wondered why, but he stayed quiet and kept following. He had his instructions, and the Goodfellow had little patience for deviations.
One of the men walked back to the door and leaned against its frame, looking out. The other approached the owner then. He rapped his knuckles lightly against the wooden counter and spoke. "A man'll be walkin' in 'ere soon. Don't talk. If 'e speaks, jus' listen. If 'e don't, still listen. 'E likes this place an' 'e pays handsome, what's more." He whistled at his partner then, who opened the door and stepped outside, holding it behind him. "Golden opportunity, this 'un. Yessir, jus' don't screw it up." And he walked out the door.
A short, robed figure stepped through the door and into that thick, smoky silence. Lalafell most like, by the gait. It walked the aisles, examining the carvings of rich wood, the huge jars of dank, pungent leaves. It circled back around to the front of the shop. A voice crawled out from under the hood. It was deeper than expected. Raspier, too.
"Your books, they're in the back?"
Don't talk. The owner nodded.
"You know why I'm here?"
He nodded again.
"You've received other offers?" Don't talk. "Mine's better."
He walked to the door. Without turning, he spoke once more. "Both, so we're clear: book and girl."
The door closed behind him.
______________
Styrm carried Brindle from house to hole to hovel, unaware in his exhaustion, his single-minded focus on finding the next clue, eyes ever forward. He never thought to turn around.
Behind him, throughout the night, a man followed. Nondescript, quiet, if more than a little nervous, he let himself be led from place to wretched place. He was tired, he was annoyed, he was bored, but still he followed. He couldn't go back, not without something--anything--to report.
He wondered if he shouldn't try to throw the roe off, pick off the kid somehow. But the boss had told him to leave the big man alone. He wondered why, but he stayed quiet and kept following. He had his instructions, and the Goodfellow had little patience for deviations.
