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.
Â
Osric knew as well as Kink did that he had just called down the entire undercity of Limsa Lominsa on their heads.
Â
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.
Â
"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!"
Â
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.
Â
Gods help the fool what broke rank on that.
Â
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.
Â
He bowed with a smile, then turned on one heel and started after Kink again.
Â
The next few bells will be the worst.
Â
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.
Â
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. Â
Â
Easy. Nothing was ever easy.
Â
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. Â
Â
It has to be her. She's the only one who might, just might, be able get me some gods-damned answers.
Â
He'd given her no choice in the matter. She'd lose out, most ways, and lose out big.
Â
"Ran like a yellow-bellied eft, she did, scared little shite."
Â
"Bowed her head 'n' folded her ears to the barons, aye. No guts t'be found there."
Â
"Kink? Botched a job tryin' her hand at getting into the Maelstrom's papers. Incompetent dyke."
Â
"Tried 'n' failed to cheat the gangs, her. What they did t'her after...."
Â
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.
Â
Your turn, Sparrow. Pull me aside, even if only 'cause y'so rightfully pissed at me. Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
The door to the bilge swung open.
Â
Thunk.
Â
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.
Â
Thunk.
Â
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.
Â
Thunk.
Â
"Dirk. I need you."
Â
The boy looked up and smiled. Â
Â
Osric knew as well as Kink did that he had just called down the entire undercity of Limsa Lominsa on their heads.
Â
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.
Â
"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!"
Â
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.
Â
Gods help the fool what broke rank on that.
Â
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.
Â
He bowed with a smile, then turned on one heel and started after Kink again.
Â
The next few bells will be the worst.
Â
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.
Â
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. Â
Â
Easy. Nothing was ever easy.
Â
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. Â
Â
It has to be her. She's the only one who might, just might, be able get me some gods-damned answers.
Â
He'd given her no choice in the matter. She'd lose out, most ways, and lose out big.
Â
"Ran like a yellow-bellied eft, she did, scared little shite."
Â
"Bowed her head 'n' folded her ears to the barons, aye. No guts t'be found there."
Â
"Kink? Botched a job tryin' her hand at getting into the Maelstrom's papers. Incompetent dyke."
Â
"Tried 'n' failed to cheat the gangs, her. What they did t'her after...."
Â
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.
Â
Your turn, Sparrow. Pull me aside, even if only 'cause y'so rightfully pissed at me. Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
The door to the bilge swung open.
Â
Thunk.
Â
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.
Â
Thunk.
Â
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.
Â
Thunk.
Â
"Dirk. I need you."
Â
The boy looked up and smiled. Â
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
