Innocence and Avarice [closed]

[Zhavi]

The edges of panic nibbled at her nerves. Would she have to make her move that night, when he slept? Dare she? Who knew, she might never have the opportunity to be in his room again, and if she missed that chance . . .the book would be lost to her. And she? It wasn't worth thinking about. She had to focus.

 

Her stomach growled as the smell of the food -- good food -- hit her. Jager's asshattery had left her half starved while she waited for the right time to appear before Lalataru, the result of which that the hunger that filled her face as she looked down at the bowl was all-too-real. She attacked it, with less care for manners than was even typical for her. Even nervous, even with stress sitting like a lead ball deep in her gut, she couldn't stop eating. It tasted so good.

 

She ate too much. Discomfort forced her to slow down, and then stop; she'd gotten through a good portion of the food, but there was still some on the plate. Her instincts encouraged her to pocket what was left of the bread, and she stopped herself just shy of picking it up.

 

Hands left to dangle at her sides, she looked back to Lalataru, internally calculating his exhaustion. She didn't even know if he was a light sleeper; if she had to make her move tonight she wouldn't have a chance to try that option. She bit her lip.

 

"Where'm I sleepin', Master Lolotaru?"

[Goodfellow]

"Hm?" he intoned as Joz broke the silence.  "Ah, erm, you'll be sleeping in the bed tonight, Miss Joz," he said with a nod.  "I'll, eh, I'll rotate this chair and sleep by the door.  You can rest easy, here.  Ben is patrolling the exterior and I imagine that Styrmsthal will be by in the morning.  He'll be relieved to see you," he added, smiling wanly.  He yawned again, this time utterly failing to mitigate it. 

 

Fighting through the blinking of his eyes and the tightness of his jaw, he asked, "Will you be needing anything else tonight, Miss Joz?"

[Zhavi]

Her nerve broke.

 

"Jes, eh, I'll jes. . ." she shut up and walked to the bed, gingerly climbing up on it. She was much less sore, but the sudden change in pain levels hadn't fully registered yet.

 

She would outlast him to sleep, and then they would see just how sound a sleeper Lolotaru Lalataru was.

[Goodfellow]

Lolo but nodded sleepily as Joz climbed into bed.  He turned the chair to face the door and made himself comfortable.  Gods, he was tired, and felt as though he hadn't slept for days.  Not well, at least.  He still had so many questions; there were inconsistencies that needed reconciling and responsible parties to identify.  And to deal with.

 

No, he thought as sleep overtook him, mustn't think like that.  Mustn't be like that.  He pulled the little aquamarine tome from his pocket and clutched it in his lap, its familiar contours comforting or anchoring him through the nightmares that began to plague him as soon as he slipped into unconsciousness.

[Zhavi]

His breathing changed.

 

Moonlight pooled into the room as Zhi opened her eyes, pushing herself halfway up from the bed. Her heart beat in her throat. She was sweaty, the nervous, acrid kind of sweaty that always followed her when she couldn't make up her mind. When she couldn't make up her mind, she acted.

 

The floor was cold under her feet. She slipped forward, silent, testing each step before she moved. He was paces in front of her. He was different, asleep. Everyone was; it was an epitome of vulnerability.

 

Long, deep, slow breaths. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the book, her heart nearly breaking free from her chest as they smoothed over the cover.

 

Her fingers closed around an edge, her other hand gently pressing against his hand as she slowly started to slide it from his grip.

 

Suddenly, she was calm. Steady.

 

Alive.

[Goodfellow]

Lolotaru could always fall asleep.  Often, sleep was not an entirely restful affair, plagued by vivid dreams or simply hamstrung by the tension of his waking hours, but he was always able to fall asleep.  Still, any other night he may have been roused by the girl's temerity.  But that night, uncommonly exhausted and fallen deep into the grip of a powerful nightmare, he simply slouched further and began to snore lightly.  His grip on the book did not loosen, nor did it tighten, but remained static and largely unresponsive to its careful removal.

[Zhavi]

Zhi stared down at him, and in that moment she knew she could take the book and be gone before he awoke. She knew she could escape him. She knew she could hand her reward over to Galleon, complete the contract, and be on her merry way. Lalataru didn't know the city like she knew the city; she doubted he'd find her. Styrmsthal posed more of a problem, but she had confidence in herself.

 

What she didn't have confidence in was Galleon. She was expendable, had been from the beginning, and the way the man wanted the book -- he was like as not to kill her over it, good job or no. But, if she were to switch sides, she had no guarantee Lalataru wouldn't kill her, either. Oh, sure, he played the nice uncle up to the hilt, the man who took in strays and kept them like pets, but she'd not seem him pressed by betrayal. As far as she knew, he might as well be ruthless once his little games ceased to amuse him, for all his reputation painted him as an upstanding member of the Arcanist's Guild. She didn't trust none of them.

 

The book was heavy as she took it fully from the lalafel, its weight perhaps a testament to what she was taking on by its removal. Either way, she courted death. Either way was a tricky road. But she knew the tricks Galleon was likely to play, knew his kind. He wallowed in his own filth, and she would see it. But Lalataru? He was too much an enigma. Too much a risk.

 

She left without making a sound, book securely tucked under her arm.

[Goodfellow]

Consciousness came slowly to Lolo that morning.  His eyes felt dry, his neck stiff, and the muscles of his jaw felt raw while his teeth ached.  He'd ground them in his sleep.  He'd no idea how long he'd slept, but he barely felt rested at all.  He slipped slowly down from the chair, joints cracking and popping loudly as his body roused itself.  He stopped and was quiet.  He hoped he hadn't woken the girl.  He was sure she'd need to rest longer than even he did.  He peeked around the side of the chair at the bed and full awareness came upon him suddenly.

 

She was gone.

 

Calm down, he thought, urging his heart and breath to settle.  She had probably awoken before him and gone down for some breakfast.  Fool of a girl, he thought to himself at the idea.  Naive and foolish to go out alone like that.

 

He changed his robe quickly, intending to find and join her.  Drank a quick glass of water and chewed some mint, then walked to the door, stopped, and patted his pockets.

 

The book.  Must've left it in the other robe.

 

But when he stuck his hands into those pockets it wasn't there.  He shook the robe violently, but the book did not fall from it.  His eyes flew across all the shelves and surfaces of the room, but did not come to rest on the book.  He practically threw himself beneath the chair and bed, but did not encounter the book.  He tore the cushion from the chair and the sheets from the bed, but did not uncover the book.

 

"No, no, no..." he droned, refusing to believe.

 

He ran downstairs, then.  The morning was not yet very advanced and the Wench was largely unoccupied at that hour.  Joz was not there.

 

"No, no, no..." he repeated as his patted the side of his leg rapidly.  Moments later Ben bounded to his side.  He knelt down and looked into the summon's eyes, making rapid little concentric circles with his right hand over his left palm.  Ben chittered and raised its nose, lowering it with a determined focus and skittered out into the Octant.  Lolotaru followed it out and stood nervously with his arms crossed at the edge of the plaza.  For several minutes, Ben sniffed this way and that, here nearer to Hawkers' Alley, there nearer the ramps to the docks.  The smells in that place must have been innumerable, overwhelming, and in the end that volume defeated the poor creature's efforts.  Head downcast and glow dimmed significantly, it returned to its master.

 

And across his own face, confusion turned to concern, and concern to hurt, and hurt finally, slowly gave way to something firmer, that thing that scared even Lolotaru Lalataru himself, the part of himself he ever efforted to mask and abate: his anger.  It set his muscles as stone and clenched tight his raw jaw.  He cut his hand down and out through the air in front of him and Ben leapt into the air and disappeared with a flash.  Then he too was gone from the plaza as the morning crowd began to thicken like mist off the sea.

[Zhavi]

Busy night. Weren't they all? Zhavi's first stop had been to see Keto'to -- ostensibly for something to carry the book in, something nondescript that could be kept tight to her body and under her hands (wouldn't that be a cruel twist if someone stole the stolen book from her?), but secondary was to see what the old man knew. Guttersnipe he might consider himself, but she'd seen the intelligence that lurked behind his rheumy eyes and shabby exterior. Keto'to had gotten old in a city that didn't like unattached old men whose position kept them in touch with all sorts of unwanted rogues.

 

He touched the book carefully, flipped through it with gentle fingertips. "Ye'll not be wantin' this fer long, no," he said after a quiet eternity.

 

Zhi fidgeted. "I ain't plannin' on keepin' it," she snapped.

 

He gave her a steady look.

 

She flushed: more out of temper than any sort of grace. "D'ye know what it is?"

 

He looked back down at the book. "Nay."

 

She sighed, and reached out to take it. He intercepted her, took hold of her wrist. She tried to yank it back, but his grip was strong. Her ears flattened, and she bared her teeth at him.

 

"This," he tapped the book with his free hand, "is somethin' right strange. Strange attracts greed, 'specially in this sort o' pit o' vipers. I don't know how ye've gotten yer hands wrapped 'round it, an' I ain't carin' t'know. But this goes higher than ye've th'stones t'handle, lass."

 

She hissed at him. He let her go. She snatched up the book and stuffed it down the sack she'd paid him for. He watched her, morose, probably one of the last few scrags in the city who'd treat her like an equal, and she sneered at him in return.

 

"I can handle meself, old man."

 

He watched her carefully. "Ye've a buyer?"

 

The change in topic made her shift. She turned to leave.

 

"Thing like that, no man'd want a trail left behind," Keto'to called out behind her.

 

That was all she'd needed to hear.

 

______________

 

Morning saw her drinking long and steady, crouched low in an alley with the bag laid out before her and her head all buzzing with an unnatural energy. Her fingers shook as she capped the skin that held her alcohol, and stuffed it down her shirt to rest against the belt at her hips. She'd sent out three tentative signals: one to Brindle, one to Jager, and one to net the attention of one of Galleon's flunkies. She knew she had to move fast, and had made her decision, for good or ill: she couldn't just hang on to the thing while Lalataru remained out and about. He wouldn't exactly be happy that his book'd been kipped.

 

She wanted to smoke, but resisted: probably the first smart decision she'd made in a full moon. The craving zinged through her, buzzing under her skin, and she ignored it as best as she could as she waited for Brindle to come find her.

 

He made it to her side by noon, and she sent him back out near as fast as he'd arrived, to go listen and come back with news of Galleon's people.

 

She hid all day, hungry and buzzing. She expected him to take time; the city was large and even with his skills it would take time to track down Galleon's movements.

 

By sunset, she knew he wasn't likely coming back.

 

She made the decision to stash the book, praying for all she was worth that it stayed hidden, and tucked tail under her overlong shirt and a hat down over her ears. She'd hit up Her Highness first, and make her way through the sprawl of shady and seedy bars and taverns in her search, conscious that by now Galleon's people had likely scented her blood. They'd be looking for her, and gods only knew what Galleon himself was willing to do for the book.

 

She didn't know why Brindle hadn't come back, and she didn't want to guess.

 

All she could do was avoid Styrm as best she could, and hope not to get caught by Galleon's net.

[Goodfellow]

"What d'ye mean, 'e's gone?" Styrmsthal near bellowed.  "Told me t'meet 'im 'ere, 'e did!"

 

Once, Felijha would have cowered, but Styrm didn't intimidate her anymore.  "As I told you, Mr. Tyrbsyn, Mr. Lalataru left word to place all outstanding business on hold and simply run Kodu Co.'s routine tasks and--"

 

"Lemme see th'note," he interrupted.  Felijha shrugged and rolled her great Keeper eyes and handed him the note.  It wouldn't give away any important company details and she knew the boss and Tyrbsyn were close.  Styrm's eyes narrowed and darted over the scant lines of text.  Gone for a short time, business as usual, etc.

 

"As I'm sure you're aware, Mr. Tyrbsyn, Mr. Lalataru does go off from time to time.  This is nothing out of the ordinary.  I've only delayed my tasks in order to inform you, as I know he was expecting to see you.  Now, I will likely need to return to Thanalan, but if you do make contact with him, please leave word with a Kodu Co. retainer."  She cast one last, long glance at the great roegadyn and quickly turned and scampered off.  She did work so hard, but the man tugged at the edges of her composure.

 

For his part, Styrm barely registered the miqo'te's exit.  He was examining the note.  Why would Taru leave?  He had learned from the Mizzenmast staff that he'd found Joz, but now both of them were missing.  Did he take her into hiding?  Why din't 'e tell me 'bout it, then?  Besides, he'd never hide her away in La Noscea.  He would've taken her back to Thanalan where his connections ran deeper.

 

Wait.  Taru's symbol at the bottom of his note, something was off about it.  No one ever played terribly close attention to Lolotaru's signature, which always included some needlessly complex geometric design.  He said each one left a clearer impression than words, but they had only ever confounded Styrm.  This one, however, a version of his ship-and-scales signature, was dark.  It was deep.  He'd pressed hard to write it.  The angles were sharper, more acute where they were generally more open, parabolic impressions of space.  He squinted at it a moment, and then he saw it.  The scales which formed the mast were unbalanced.  The arm which held a small gil was overburdened and the other side, where an open book normally sat, was empty and raised high.

 

Styrm remained lost, and he remained worried.  If he couldn't find Joz, he'd find whoever else was looking for her.  Maybe he'd find Taru along the way.  Anyroad, the whole thing felt complicated, shadowy, the sort of thing Taru avoided, the sort of thing he never even talked about.

 

Styrmsthal needed to move.

[Zhavi]

Zhavi moved. Every step was a dagger between her shoulderblades, every breath was a knife between her ribs. She felt eyes upon her, and couldn't trust the instinct; she walked the wide slab roads of Limsa, keeping away from places where someone might get a jump on her, keeping to the crowds or the rooftop runways that only those like her knew about or could travel. Sometimes there were advantages to such a light frame as hers.

 

The air was cool, a hint of warmth driven in from the ocean. She didn't like the wind for the scents it obscured. All of them were sampled: her self-discipline for not smoking paid off in spades.

 

Highness was busy, and what fruit it had to offer her was rotten and old. She waited a bell too long, getting drunk and nervous, catching sidelong looks for her troubles and no lack of careless sneers. The regulars, the ones who had exchanged coin with her before, knew when she was off her high, and could tell when she was sucking dry. All but a few left her alone, most recognizing her by build and twitchiness and the way her lips pulled to the side when she was off her game.

 

They wanted to dice with her. She gave them one game, and one loss: it was an expected tax. She might have given them the money without the need to play at a farce, but there was ritual that demanded certain expectations were met. In return, they wouldn't talk about her, would forget she'd been there before the end of the night was over.

 

Zhi left, a cold slimy spot in her gut urging her to go and hide until it was all over.

 

Wouldn't be over until she'd gotten rid of the book.

 

There was a desire to burn it. Brindle's voice haunted her then, asking her if she was craven. Right then she didn't care, because far as she knew she had two sides hunting for her head, and she caught between them without room to breathe.

 

The taverns blurred together as the night progressed, her drunkenness testament to her desires more than her casual addictions. There were tidbits of information that she took and pressed together, trying to make sense of what it all meant. She was sure that Galleon was still out of town, that he hadn't been in town for a long while, and that his flunkies were damn good at hiding. Brindle was in the wind, his whereabouts unnoticed and uncommented on. The certainty that he'd been taken, or that he'd fled, grew stronger until it caught up with her instinct, and her need to tell him how stupid he was was countered only by her own self-preservation.

 

She was screwed.

 

Arranging for a drop was all well and good, but she couldn't trust any proxies left to her and she couldn't very well show up; assassination might be frowned upon between Limsa's citizens, but that didn't mean it never happened. Where there were those specialized in killing killers, there were also those specialized in avoiding the killers of killers.

 

The words tangled in her head, and she paused to giggle, one hand pressed to rough stone and the other to her stomach. She'd too much to drink. When had that happened?

 

Another bar lay ahead of her, one that stayed open late. There were choices, and choices, and Zhavi Streetrunner stuck her fingers down her throat and pressed her head up against the wall, stomach clenching and clenching with her mouth wide open and her breath freshly fouled by acid and booze. She was shuddering when she was done, took a piss while she was there in the street, alone and miserable, still full of booze and her bad decisions.

 

Alternate buyer.

 

She had to. There was no other choice. She stuck her fingers down her throat again, conscious that she'd need to drink and buy drinks else she'd be crowded back out the door; there were some places you could go and buy but not drink, but these were the best shitholes Limsa had to offer. You had to be sloppy and entertaining when you weren't more than some lowly runner.

 

Zhi sniffed, hawked and spat, leaving behind a wretched mess and the dredges of her dignity.

 

She entered the bar with her head up and some feckless grin splitting her lips wide open.

[Goodfellow]

Styrmsthal Tyrbsyn walked darker streets than was his own custom.  Away from the rowdy stretches off the docks, lower than Barnacles' Reach, districts blighted with resentment and spite where every word was equal parts whisper and spit.  No word among the wealthy, no word among the poor, no word he understood from mainlanders and foreigners; these were the last places to look and the last places to hope to find her. 

 

There was very little air in those environs and what wind did blow seemed composed of a breeze of rumors and threats.  Styrm, somewhat injudiciously, added rumors of his own to the confluence.  He was not a man for delicacy, and these were not streets trod by delicate sorts.  From lips to ears to lips, miserable tributaries flowing into and feeding the reeking river of breath that whirled and rushed through the piss-wet alleys and broken windows all around.

 

Big roe's got information.  Little kitten, broken tail.

______________

 

Amongst the cacophonous din that was the undercurrent of the Lominsan word-trade, another whisper began to weave its way, quieter than the big roegadyn's indiscreet advertisements, more practiced, worm-like, the sort of whisper that was loud to knowing ears.  All the more striking for its contents.

 

In those most illiterate stretches of ignored ignorance, someone was looking for a book.

 

Pay's handsome.  Good fellow.

[Zhavi]

Solitaire wasn't the sort of runner who just let things happen. He was meticulous, orderly, and knew how to play his hand. It was his success at cards, from an early age, that had lead to the moniker he was most widely known by. He played high-stakes games, always: anything less left him bored. He didn't always win. He made mistakes, sometimes.

 

He never made the same mistake twice.

 

Reputation was an important thing on the streets of Limsa Lominsa, and Solitaire had worked very hard to maintain his. Sure, he might not be a big name, but his ascension was never questioned, only delayed.

 

He was sharing a bowl of embers with two of his regulars -- men who needed quick, reliable, and trustworthy runners to move subtle packages and even subtler words -- when he heard the first rumor. Little kitten, broken tail. It didn't register at first; he was busy with his own jobs, and didn't have time to keep track of every whelp that annoyed him. He had ambition, and he was not the sort to get sidetracked by insignificant rumors. But it stuck in his mind to be replayed long after he'd left his customers and made his way back to his bed. And there, in the dead of night, it took root in his brain. An interest in a rivalry that had long ago soured into something worse, into something he only trifled with when he had something to gain. He was curious, but that emotion was quickly squashed. He had some information in regards to the scrag with a broken tail, and if it gained him more contacts then so be it.

 

Solitaire would make inquiries in the morning.

 

_________________

 

It hadn't even been a bell since she'd docked. The urge to ask if the man who had come to her with the information was serious was strong, but she stuffed it. Only those who were weak needed to hear something twice, and Litha was anything but that.

 

There were many books in Limsa Lominsa. At any given time there were people looking for some of those books, any number of those books, and in some cases they sought books that weren't even in the city. So there was absolutely no guarantee, there was only a small glimmer of a chance, that the whispers currently plaguing the city in regards to a book were in regards to the book she was concerned with.

 

Good fellow.

 

Those two words. Those two rutting words. They were infuriating, and they were the small seed of chance that made her hesitate over chastising the man for bothering her with unimportant information. He was paid handsomely to provide her with pertinent information. It wasn't like he was an idiot.

 

"I need more," she said, staring him down though he was at least a fulm taller than she. "Give me somethin' I can work with, else you're wastin' my time for naught."

 

They wouldn't let her down.

 

They wouldn't dare.

 

______________

 

 

"Hey."

 

Nothing.

 

"Hey."

 

The stool Zhi was sitting on tipped, and then spilled her to the ground. It wasn't the first time such had happened to her, and she awoke with the instincts of someone who expected to be knifed in the next few seconds. It wasn't amusing to the man who'd woken her.

 

"We're closin'. Pay th'ruttin' tab an' get out."

 

Zhi hadn't remembered falling asleep at the bar, nor did she remember the last bell or so preceding it. She'd been happy, she knew that, and as she slowly and carefully righted herself she remembered why. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out her purse, and started clumsily sorting through coin. "'Ow much?"

 

"Seventy-nine."

 

She blinked. Looked up. After her night of boozing and spending, she didn't have that much left.

 

The man read her intention a full second too late, and she was scrambling for the door with him hot on her heels. Didn't matter that she was still full drunk -- she'd done plenty of running with a buzz from far worse things. Didn't matter she'd gone just about broke on her all-night binge, neither, or that she couldn't remember exactly where in the city she was.

 

As she slammed through the door and hit the street, only one thing mattered in her mind:

 

she had the names of two of Galleon's rivals.

 

She had a means of ridding herself of the book.

[Goodfellow]

Styrmsthal Tyrbsyn sat uncomfortably in the shadowy back end of a bar in the uncomfortable, shadowy back end of town.  He was not practiced in intrigue, however many intriguing sorts he did business with.  Big man for big work was his byline and no one wanted a screaming battleaxe for quiet, precise work.  And so he sat and he waited.  Sitting there cloaked in smoke and darkness, anyone else may have looked subtle, serpentine, a denizen of the darker sub-city that underpinned Lominsan history and economy.  But not Styrmsthal.  He looked like a man trying to look like a more mysterious man.  He looked, in short, just like what he was: a desperate man out of his element.

 

Solitaire nursed his drink at the bar, sizing up the roegadyn with an unseen, practiced side-eye.  Now that he saw the big man, he liked this business all the less.  Desperation made a man unpredictable, and unknown variables were anathema to a man of his profession and ambition.

 

It had taken little time to catch the tail of the rumors and less still to follow them to their source.  Discretion was barely a concern, clearly, and time seemed to be at a premium.  He took one last swig from his dusty mug and left some loose gil sliding and sinking into the thick, ruddy oil coating the surface of the bar.

 

He sat down across the table from Styrmsthal and the bigger man started.  His big hands coming onto the table and his eyes widening and darting before settling on the man in front of him, intent, focused.  Solitaire was annoyed.

 

"So what do ye know and what do ye want to know?" he asked.

 

"'Bout what?" Styrm huffed in reply, still staring.

 

"'That crook-tailed bitch, Mr. Tyrbsyn," he sneered.  "What else?"

 

Styrm gaped stupidly for a long moment before closing his mouth hurriedly.  His jaw set in irritation.  He wanted his next words to sound cool and aloof.  He failed.

 

"Aye?  And who's it what's lookin' fer 'er?  An' lookin' t'me, no less."

[Zhavi]

"Oh?" There was a sneer in the way Solitaire's mouth twisted up; he'd a chip on his shoulder half as big again as the roe sat in front of him, and it showed in his swagger. "Who says I'm lookin' fer her? 'M no more'n a runner, Tyrbsyn. 'M lookin' fer money, an' I sniffed it all th'way back t'yer . . . self."

 

The lack of a title on that sally was deliberate, and made unsubtle by the way Solitaire looked Tyrbsyn up and down. No, subtlety and the hyur did not often cross paths in any meaningful way. "I'm thinkin' there's somethin' on yer mind, an' I'm thinkin' there might be way fer me t' . . . ease ye along. Am I wastin' me time?"

 

His tone was hard. He wasn't about to stick around if Tyrbsyn was going to string him along with his nervous foolishness. Man looked half gadabout, and that was either a means to get more money then any job might warrant, or a signal to clear the hells out before his stupidity became infectious.

 

How Tyrbsyn answered would determine whether or not Solitaire stuck around.

[Goodfellow]

Styrmsthal Tyrbsyn hated these games.  Each subsequent word from the hyur seemed to sound from further and further away as the rushing of his blood filled his ears.  He was uncomfortable, he was embarrassed, he was impatient, and he was tired.  So tired.  His normally thick skin wore perilously thin and any remnants of his geniality finally evaporated before that toothsome, shit-eating sneer.

 

"Jus' a runner," he mumbled as a smile, hollow and mirthless, cracked his lips.  He sighed through it, "'Nough o' this shite."

 

He spread his hands out then over the table, his long arms taking them closer to Solitaire.  Then he spoke, visibly tense but delivering every word with careful restraint and measurement, little drops of water through a crack in a dam.  "Listen, runner, I'm lookin' fer th'girl an' yer lookin' fer me, so ye'll tell ol' Styrm what for or I'll be beatin' th'grin from yer lips," he growled, low, rumbling.  "Don' yell, don' run.  Ain't helpful.  Jus' talk.  I like what ye've got t'say, ye'll get yer money.  I don' an' we're both like t'be disappointed.  Jus' stop wastin' me time an' tell me where t'find Joz."

[Zhavi]

Something the roegadyn said made the smile on Solitaire's face falter, though it never quite slipped away entirely. "Information'll cost ye. Help'll cost ye more. Five hunnerd gil fer what I know o' the bitch, an' another two hunnerd fer places she's like as not t'be."

 

The smile turned sly, and edged: the cat teasing the dog, flirting with injury for some unknown promise of self gain.

[Goodfellow]

Styrm was confused.  He'd expected his threat to rattle the bastard harder than that.

 

Be smart, Styrm, he thought to himself.  What would Taru do?

 

The thought worried him.

 

He judged the distance from his hands to Solitaire's own, deciding whether or not to grab him.  But no, he didn't want to cause a scene just yet.  Still leaning forward, still tense, he asked the man a question.

 

"How's a man t'know we're even talkin' 'bout th'same lil' kitten?  Jozzie can't be th'only girl 'round with a roughed up tail."

[Zhavi]

Solitaire narrowed his eyes. "Short dark hair? Scar across here?" He drew his finger sideways over his nose. "Dark eyes? This high?" He approximated Kink's height with an uplifted hand, and shrugged. "Thing is, gadder, only one bitch in all o' lowtown I know what has a tail like that. Either ye can pay fer what I know'r keep pokin' 'round th'mud hopin' ye find yer pearl."

 

The roe's tension slipped across the table and took up residence in Solitaire's shoulders.

[Goodfellow]

Aye, they were talking about the same girl.  Styrm didn't know whether to feel relieved or more worried.

 

He didn't care what the man knew about Joz, only where he could find her.  But then again, maybe knowing more about her would help him find her.  But where would he come up with the gil?  With Taru missing, he couldn't come up with that sum on short notice.  He considered bluffing, then thought better of it.

 

"Can' pay ye seven-hunnerd, ye git, but I can promise to meet ye half way on the coin...an' not t'go breaking your hands--," he said as his own shot forward, seeking to close around the smaller hyuran pair.

[Zhavi]

Solitaire was fast, but the roe was faster. He jerked his hands back only to find his fingers caught tight. He looked down in muted surprise, indecision keeping him silent for two long seconds before he looked up with a cheery grin and murder in his eyes. "If ye wanted t'hold me hands, scrag, all ye had t'do was ask. Three-fifty, then. Ye wantin' kisses, too?"

 

He couldn't help the cold sweat that prickled all over his body, nor the sudden and rapid beating of his heart. But he would not go down a mewling, pathetic coward.

[Goodfellow]

Seeing the man's trapped wiliness, feeling his pulse through his clammy hand, Styrm almost smiled; a sardonic thing, crueler than the wry look he usually wore.  Then he stopped.  He didn't like where this was going and he didn't like what he was doing.  He'd worked dirty business before, but he wasn't a face man.  His interactions were simpler, more honest: hit back.Dancing like this required finesse and cleverness. 

 

 

 

Taru'd handle it better.

 

His grip tightened.  He regained his composure.

 

"Ne'er planted one on a lass so flat an' foul an' ain't lookin' t'start now," he intoned mirthlessly.  "Now, deal's a deal," he said, releasing Solitaire's left hand to grip the right in a dangerous exaggeration of a handshake, "so start talkin'."

[Zhavi]

"Y'ain't pretty enough fer me taste, anyroads," Solitaire muttered, that grin still firmly in place. "Y'got th'coin, friend?"

[Goodfellow]

Shite he thought.  Shitin' shite on a shite.  He wants the coin now?

 

"I ain't fool enough t'go cartin' so much coin 'round 'ere, but ye'll be gettin' it sure enough."  He paused a moment then slowly loosened his grip, releasing the hyur's hand.

 

"Now, laddie, tell me somethin' I can use.  Pretty please."

 

He held his breath.

[Zhavi]

"'Ye'll be gettin' it,' says th'sailor t'the whore." Solitaire winked. "I ain't workin' fer naught, an' if ye think t'break me bones fer payment, I'll see that no runner'll give ye what yer wantin'. None o' us work fer free." Solitaire was still smiling. His heart was in his throat, too, but he was getting pissed. He was too respected in lowtown for this gadder to come around slinging his weight like he was some bruiser.

 

Who was the man, anyways?