Innocence and Avarice [closed]

[Goodfellow]

"Godsdammit!" he barked as he slapped his hands against the table, cracks suddenly appearing and worming their way through the wood, dust and splinters clouding the air between them. 

 

"I ain't tryin' to con ye, ye jackal," he growled, a rolling rumble after the thunder-crack against the table.  "I say I'm good fer it an' I mean it.  Now, you can  be gettin' yer money tomorrow or I can drag yer thrice-damned arse 'cross town with me an' pay ye tonight, but one way or another yer tellin' me what's what!"

[Zhavi]

Solitaire jumped. He almost backed right up out of his chair. He had his answer. This was a man unused to dealing. This was a man who didn't know what, by all the seas, he was doing.

 

The unease crawling up his back shaded into something different.

 

"She goes by Kink, mostly. Has some other names -- but Kink's what she's known by. She's a streetrunner. Y'know. Takes jobs, gets infermation, gets things that others can't get. Sloppy though, y'ask me. She's independent, has a few regulars from what I heard, but mostly gets jobs through Yayabuko. Ain't much she won't do, long as it pays right an' don't get th'wrong sort o'folk pissed at her."

 

He eyed the roe and said, very carefully, "I want me money afore I give ye her haunts."

[Goodfellow]

Styrmsthal rubbed his eyes and sighed, a great gusty exhalation.  Finally he'd caught a thread, but he was unnerved by the dark places it surely lead.

 

"Aye, aye, 'pay afore play' an' th'like.  Ye'll wait fer me, an' ye'll wait right 'ere," and he jammed his finger against the creaking, whining table.  "I come back t'an empty chair, an' I'll be tearin' this 'ole town down aroun' yer godsspitin' 'ead, I will."

 

He tapped the side of his head then and said, "Yers ain't a face I'm like t'be forgettin'."

 

He stood up and stomped outside, disappearing back into the foggy dark like a mountain in the rain.

[Zhavi]

"Me-- wait, where d'ye --"

 

The roe was gone, with Solitaire half out of his seat, the table blocking him from dashing after the roe; he'd gotten his foot all tangled up with one of the legs, and almost kissed the floor for his troubles. By the time he'd gotten himself to rights, there was no trace of the other man. There was snickering at Solitaire's expense, which only earned grumbling and half-hearted glares from him.

 

He righted his chair and sat back down, folding his arms across his chest. He'd given out valuable information that he'd yet to receive coin for, and the roe thought he was going to leave without getting paid? Far more likely the roe was going to off and be gone, and not come back.

 

And if that was the case, Solitaire would see to it the man would pay, one way or another.

[Goodfellow]

Dark and dusty, the room.  Broken slats formed stained walls and middling rugs were tossed soggily over ever damp spots on the cold stone floor.  At the back of the room sat a table and on the table sat a candle.  Its pale flame was the only illumination in that dark corner of the ruined room; nonetheless, the shadow it cast was a long one, and a dark one.

 

The tabletop was strewn with parchment, crumpled or otherwise, all scarred with scribbles, indecipherable symbols, apparent nonsense.  His small hand trembled slightly as it traced charcoal scratches over dry, thirsty paper, edges baking and curling up in the proximate heat of the candle.  The lines, the waves, they were indistinct, as though that hand struggled to reproduce the motion of ripples in a pond on a particular day.  From memory.

 

"Big loads o' talk 'bout town, sir," spoke a man toward the front of the room.  "Aye, sir, whole big loads o' talk.  Folks all 'cross town are turnin' out their book bags."

 

The hand paused, the charcoal pencil rested.  The hooded head turned to listen more closely.

 

The man swallowed and opened his mouth to continue, then closed it again.  Then opened it, only to close it once more.  He didn't know how to talk to the little man at the table.  His sort traded in dirty, broken rooms like that one, but the man at the table, drawing by the dim light of candle and memory, he didn't belong in that sort of room.  He belonged up, up, up with the folk that got fleeced when they stumbled into dirty, broken rooms.  Robbed and beaten and left to drag themselves back to the orderly world they knew.  But the seated man was comfortable here, and the cut of his robe and the poise of his bearing were not dragged down by his lowly environs, rather the room had an august atmosphere, a permeating feeling of heavy drama.  But it was darker, too, and the darkness seemed richer.

 

He hadn't found the book.  He hadn't found the girl.  Why'd I come? he asked himself.  Got nothin' to say, so why'd I come?

 

"Won't waste no more o' yer time, sir.  I'll jus' be goin'.  Soon as somethin's worth sayin', I'll be right back.  Yessir."  He turned his hunched frame and took a step toward the door.

 

The slow, deliberate sound of the charcoal pencil resumed.

 

The nervous man stopped.  "Jus' one more thing.  A big roe's lookin' fer a girl, too.  Same one, seems like.  Makin' noise."

 

The man at the table once again half-turned toward the other man.  His head shook, almost imperceptible beneath the hood, and he turned back to his work.  He crumpled the page before him in a fist and tossed it to the side, then waved his hand.

 

"Yessir," he said, hoping in vain to fill that horrible silence.  "We'll find 'er first, no doubt.  First thing, it is.  And the book!  The girl and the book!  First thing, we've got 'em.  Yessir, we do.  Yessir..." he droned on as he left.

 

The hooded figure's pencil set to cutting and bruising the off-white surface of a fresh sheet of parchment.  Those figures too would disappoint. 

 

How many thousands of times had the book been read? 

 

Countless.

 

How many times had its pages been reproduced?

 

None.

 

-----

 

Styrm had hurried, but scrounging together the gil he'd promised took longer than he'd hoped.  Longer than he had.

 

Still, it would be several hours yet before the sun tried to peak through the city's foggy veil.

 

More folk seemed to be scurrying about that night.  Or maybe fewer.  One or the other.

 

"Ruttin' mess..." he murmured as he stepped through the door and turned up his gaze to the table he'd left hours before.

[Zhavi]

Solitaire was in a mood.

 

He'd left a few times, had come back all the same. He hadn't gotten paid, it was very obvious to those who'd been there for the start and the end of it. He'd been intimidated and humiliated. It was the humiliation that was getting to him.

 

Another bell until the tavern closed, more or less, and most of the patrons there who'd seen him left alone had gone out the doors with knowing looks and sniggers to match. And yet, Solitaire had stayed, holding out on the chance the blighter might come back, and readying several vengeful solutions in case he didn't.

 

The roe's entrance back into the tavern was not met with any welcome, or much shift at all from the dour expression Solitaire had been wearing the last several, slow, boring bells he'd been waiting.

 

He was definitely in a mood.

 

"Y'have t'go to th' Twelveswood t'fetch yer coin?"

[Goodfellow]

"Jus' shy of, feels like," Styrm said as he slumped back into the chair across the table and laid a bag on it, kicking up dust already settled in his absence.  "Now, let's go meet Jo--"  He ran his hands across his face then stared at the hyur. "Kink.  We're off t'meet Kink.  An' if we don't turn 'er up, we'll visit this Yaya-whosit character."

 

He caught a glimpse through tired eyes of the man's fraying patience.

 

"'Ey, chin up, man."  He tapped the table.  "Gil's tradin' hands an' t'night looks to be excitin'."

[Zhavi]

Solitaire held up his hands, lips twisting into a sneer. "Hold on, ye ruttin' scrag, ain't nowhere did I tell ye I was trottin' along wi' ye t'find Kink. Y'want t'follow at me apron strings, that'll cost ye extra."

 

His expression was hard. It was the sort of hard that expected plenty of extra for all the time that had already been wasted.

[Goodfellow]

"Shiva's icy teats, ye shite!  Ain't fleeced me full enough fer one night?" he whined.  He waved his hand dismissively, resigned.  "Fine, 'at's not why we're jawin', anyroad.  Stay er go, ye've wasted enough o' me moonlight an' I'll be takin' direction an' me leave, soon as ye unbutton that slobbery smirk ye're wearin'."  He painted on a smirk of his own, droopy with exasperation.

[Zhavi]

Solitaire shrugged, and quietly hoped the man never found Kink. Not for any love lost between him and the other streetrunner, but because the roe had the nerve to keep him tied up for hours waiting for the promise of a not-significant amount of money. Scrag deserved to get knifed.

 

"Her favorite haunt's The Highness," he began, ticking off each place she frequented when looking for a job, a score, or information. He also gave two of her hidey holes, though he did mention off-hand that that information was old news. "She ain't th'brightest," was his dismissal, following up with, "last, if she's out o' sorts, she might be found at th'Wench, but it ain't likely if she's runnin'."

 

He extended his hand with an imperious flourish, expectant.

[Goodfellow]

Styrm knit his brow, exerting himself to commit each location to memory.  When the man put his hand out, he stared at it in confusion.  He pushed the bag on the table forward and rose to leave.  "Ye best 'ope I find 'er, man.  Like it or not, an' I certainly don't, yer the best lead I've got, ye are."  He patted the man on the shoulder none too gently and moved to take his leave. 

 

He wondered, out and about or tucked in somewhere?  It was late, but this Kink didn't sound the sort to avoid the late hours.  The Highness, the man had said.  He'd start there.

[Zhavi]

It hurt.

 

It was the kind of hurt that rattled you up and made you shaky, put you on high alert and kept you on your toes. It was the kind of hurt that made you feel high, that made every step conscious. It was unforgiving.

 

Brindle kept to the shadows. He was familiar with that kind of hurt, and knew what it meant; he'd come this close to getting killed. But this time, it wasn't his fault. It was Zhi's fault, because she hadn't done her part right. She'd tripped over something, and he weas the one to pay part of the price. He'd gone low, just like she'd told him to, but they were clever, had been more clever then they'd a right to. So, he'd run. Gone to the deepest, darkest corners he knew about. He'd missed his rendezvous with Zhi.

 

Now he waited, outside Highness, watching people come and go, listening to their chatter. He didn't look too bad, not as far as those things went; he didn't bruise easy (never had), and they hadn't gotten in much on his face. They weren't common thugs. Naw, it'd been something else entirely. Something he'd never come toe to toe with before. It'd shook him up something fierce.

 

He didn't know what to do but to keep watch, keep quiet, keep listening. He'd heard the rumors about Zhi, and he knew it wasn't safe to have anything to do with her right now. But what else was he gonna do? He'd little to show for himself, and he wasn't about to go crawling belly up to one of the ship crews or one of the gangs. Not yet. He wasn't that desperate yet.

 

He took a big breath, put his hands in his pockets, and strolled out of the shadows and up the gangplank to the old ship whose guts had been rearranged to make it a semi-respectable tavern. He'd sit and listen for awhile. It was what he was good at.

[Goodfellow]

Styrmsthal Tyrbsyn neither knew nor cared what the hour was when he walked into the plank into the open berth of the Highness.  He glanced around, taking in the none-too-thin crowd.  There were all sorts, nothing unexpected, no one stood out.  Old bald-pate codgers spitting rough words through missing teeth under bulbous noses red with drink; hard men safe for a night from the sea, flush with coin; whores full and flat, young and not-so-young, ripe and sour.  Hells, one boy to the side held his ribs like they'd fall out otherwise. 

 

 

Fresh beaten, that 'un.

 

He couldn't fathom where to start, so he started where they all must: the bartender.

 

"What'll it be?" the man asked him.

 

"A drink, so long as there's summut fer listenin'," he responded.

 

The barman grunted.  "'Bout what?"

 

"'Bout Kink."

 

He served Styrm a drink.

[Zhavi]

"Kink."

 

It was the only word Brindle heard, and he couldn't help stiffening in reaction. He smoothed that over, ducked his head, buried himself in the drink he wasn't really drinking (he needed to stay sober). He wasn't sitting anywhere, not with the room crowded like it was; wasn't no need to. He could move about underfoot, and folk would think he was getting brassy, looking for purses to cut. They'd think him downer, and needing to be fed. They wouldn't think he was listening, always listening -- cept for them few what knew him.

 

"Whatta 'bout Kink?" The barman replied, gruff and grizzled, long past caring about the shuffling of streetside power politics that ebbed and flowed around lowtown.

 

Brindle settled against the bar two seats down from the roe, out of direct sight, his mug clenched in both hands. He was a skinny lad, Brindle was, fresh off another growth spurt. Five fulms, and six ilms: Zhi had told him once he was going to be too big to be any use climbing the city, and he'd sworn to prove her wrong. He needed to prove her wrong, for more'n just that.

 

He knew folk were looking for her.

 

He was gonna find her first.

[Goodfellow]

"Oh thank the gods," Styrm muttered.  Here was another man without the patience for all the slinking and the bullshit that one waded through in lowtown.  He'd have to come back another night to get properly drunk with the old codger, but tonight wasn't the night.  "Lookin' fer the girl, heard tell she's not unknown t'this lot.  Trouble loves her, he does, an' it's better I'm the one what finds 'er first."

 

He nodded at the space before him at that.  The man looked like to talk, so he'd have that drink.  Deal's a deal an' drink's a drink.

[Zhavi]

The space was soon filled, though as the barman worked, he talked. Muttered, really, almost below the general level of noise. "Been askin' questions, scrag she is. Surprised she ain't got slit yet. Lass's dealin' somethin'. Whatever 'tis, 's hot. There's a lad ye'll be wantin' t'corner."

 

And there he paused. Cleared his throat. Sure, he didn't play no power games, but he did like his transactions.

[Goodfellow]

With every new detail he learned, Styrm wanted to yell.  What in th'ells 'ave ye got yerself into, Jozzie? he thought in silent lament.

 

"There's a lad ye'll be wantin' t'corner," he heard the barman say and his hands clenched reflexively around his mug.  In a quieter room, a quiet crack would have been heard; not so much as to shatter and spill, but the glass would leak.  Styrm took a swig and wiped his wet hand on his pants.  He had littler money than he'd like after Solitaire's fleecing, but he removed what remained to him and slid it across the bar.

 

"Aye?  Who's 'at an' what hole's he hidin' in?"

[Zhavi]

A miqo'te near Styrm edged slightly away, ears flicking back and forth. Not quite insensitive to the moods and natures of his patrons, the barman smiled as congenially as he could. Given the nature of his face, any smile he mustered up couldn't much scrape past ugly, but he had his ways of making clear that he didn't want trouble.

 

The gil was accepted and tucked away, and a new mug of some cheap swill procured and placed in front of Styrm.

 

The fact that the lad was sitting so close meant that the barman had to lean close to Styrm, close enough that the foulness of his breath would wash across the roe's face -- unless he chose to lean away. "Th'lad. Goes by Brindle, he does. Care not t'spook him; e's a quick one, 'e is." Carefully, he indicated Styrm's left, where only one lad sat amidst the mess of patrons.

 

Brindle showed no sign of hearing, though tension remained in him as he sat.

[Goodfellow]

Styrm had been assaulted the whole long night with foul smells and fouler.  He breathed through his mouth and inclined his head to hear the barkeep's whispers.  "Brindle, eh?" he whispered back, not yet venturing to look to his left.  "Say I sit with th'lad, he like t'try an' run off on me?"

[Zhavi]

The bartender shrugged, his own disinterest in the situation made clear by the dimming of his smile. He had his coin, and he had given his information for it. "Yer own choice, mate. Mebbe, mebbe not."

[Goodfellow]

Styrm hissed quietly through his teeth.  He upturned his mug, draining the rest of his ale, and thanked the barman.  He glanced around--don't run, boy--and began to make his way to his left, toward the boy, toward Brindle.

 

Don't run.

[Zhavi]

They'd been yammering together, the roe and the barman, and Brindle hadn't been able to hear or see. The crowd was as good as it was bad, and it had him on edge. He was hunched over the bar: shoulders curled protectively inwards, and hands wrapped around his drink. He was staring down on it, straining to hear (the moving mass of people making any attempts to see even more impossible). There was some disappointment when the barman moved away, innocuous, because if anyone had words worth sharing...

 

Brindle could wait awhile, even so. He was good at that. The best. That was why Zhi relied on him. That was why he couldn't let her down.

[Goodfellow]

It didn't seem as though the boy paid him much heed as he moved towards him.  He thanked the Twelve, almost unironically, as he darted into an empty seat.

 

"Ye'll be Brindle then, aye?" he said with a sidelong glance.  "What say we talk 'bout Kink?"

[Zhavi]

Caught flatfooted, as Zhi'd say, but it didn't take Brindle long to react. He slipped off the stool, bounced off another patron clamoring for booze, and reeled away from the stranger. In a few seconds, he'd only gone a few fulms, and it just wasn't good enough. Still, he had to try, even in the too-packed crowd.

[Goodfellow]

Styrm didn't think.  He didn't think of who might be caught in the middle, of what may happen after, of anything other than the next link in that night's godsforsaken chain of information slipping away from him.

 

Another big roegadyn grabbed the boy's shirt in irritation.

 

Styrm acted.

 

In one fluid motion he stood, pulled up his seat, and with a great, heavy overhanded arc he slung it at the darting figure.