Gold Goblin |
Phillip's fingers are a bit slower than the shop keeper's as he tries to duplicate the succession of pressure points, but that gives him plenty of time to glance into the open box and try to pick out the light gleaming off the surface of the coin within. It appears to be the same copper coin he switched for the gold when he made his original deposit. At length, the new and rather dusty puzzle-box pops open, revealing a compartment like the other's, save for its emptiness.
Where are you headed, Malkith? Back to the Gold Goblin or elsewhere?
Gristav |
Gristav paused a moment at the scrivener's door, looking back with a sigh of disappointment. "Mister Weatherby. Two doors, cannot be guarded, by one man. Apply your reason, not your... rod."
Malkith allows Gristav to usher him out of the scribe's office. As he reaches the street, he looks this way and that for the others. Spying Braddon, he marches in that direction. Once reunited, he whirls to face Gristav, "You ergel(idiot). What did you go back in there for? I was just starting to get information from him." The Varisian briskly waves off any attempt to reply "Curse you and your madarikatua hizkuntza(damned mouth). We might as well have just left Scarlet a letter explaining that we've been huntering her. It would have saved us all a lousy night in that gurpilak gabe bagoi(un-wheeled vardo)." Still fuming, he stalks off down the street.
Gristav had caught up to Malkith as he strode away. By the time Gristav was aware they were on a path for Braddon, the line had been drawn clearly for any observer. Hopefully, Weatherby had a survey of the upstairs to perform, ahead of watching the witchmen away.
Gris did indeed start to answer, and then stop, at Malkith's wave. He said softly as the Varisi steamed off, "I'll explain later, then?", and then observed to Braddon, "You would think, dressed and painted thus, he might have more care of curses."
"Go with him if you like. Or if you stay to watch, watch, follow, and report only; don't engage, break fingers, or chop off... anything."
Gristav left toward the Northwest, as though to an appointment, more than once pondering the cyphergate's shadowing. This served also to turn him about to the South, in circumspection. He hadn't noticed Daynadrian, which brought him a sort of hope. Perhaps the Elf, he wished, would understand, the flushing of game.
Braddon Hurst |
Braddon watches Malkith and Gristav emerge.
"Finally!"
He stretches and shrinks back from sight. As they arrive he opens his mouth when Malkith whirls on Gristav then storms off.
"So, didn't go well then?"
"Go with him if you like. Or if you stay to watch, watch, follow, and report only; don't engage, break fingers, or chop off... anything."
Braddon sighs at Gristav's response.
"Fine. I'll keep watching. I'll send Dayn to the Goblin if anything happens."Braddon waits for half an hour, then gets comfortable and settles in for the long game.
"This stupid scribe is going to lose more than just a finger or two if he doesn't do something soon. Maybe a hand for each day. Gristav wants him whole. Well, Lexy is working this afternoon. Worst case I follow the scribe home. Hmm, a midnight visit may work. Gods I hate waiting. Thank Desna I got paid in advance."
Phillip Hargreaves |
Confirming the presence of copper within the first puzzle box, Phillip decides to press the issue. Closing the second and passing it back to Hassan, he keeps clear of the first box - leaving it open and leaving his golden coin beside it in clear view. With genial affectations he continues "Well enough I think, shall we remove the issue of the puzzled boxes and move on to further purchase?"
Hassan ali-Haqim |
"But of course," Hassan smiles, sweeping the coin off the counter, dropping it into the secret compartment, and returning the box to its seemingly smooth-surfaced condition without ever glancing inside. He sets the reserved puzzle-box back in its place beneath the counter. "What further treasure may I make your own this fine morning?"
Phillip Hargreaves |
Marking the transition and Hassan's careful avoidance of glancing within Phillip commits it to memory before parking it and moving on. Leaning back slightly he explains "The recipient of the bracelet took the gesture well and relations have progressed upon a pleasant and expected path. While not wishing to shower the lady with gifts of purely aesthetic purpose... one still believes that a suitably selected bestowment would further cement both affection and shared purpose."
"So nothing of adornment, but something that can be used with intent to measure the passage of time together." glancing around the shop once more before turning back to Hassan "If you have specific suggestion then I would be open to it's hearing... otherwise have you anything by way of tincture or attar?"
Gold Goblin |
Gristav wends his way riverward, passing through the shops and residences of Leeward and then the mostly abandoned and boarded-up buildings of the River District. When arrives at the crossroad where he might turn toward Velashu Ferry, he heads instead in the opposite direction, toward the grand and imposing Mystery of the Gate, the overpriced inn and conference center run by the Cyphermages. From there, it is a short stroll southward to the Gold Goblin, but he decides to take a short detour. Moving eastward past the Mystery, he spies the small and colorful Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar, a shop which sells odds and ends from many ports. Stepping in the front door and setting a silver chime ringing with a more cheerful tone than the scribe's golden bell, he is mildly surprised to see the Keleshite shopkeep engaged in conversation with Phillip over the counter in the rear of the store.
From past experience, you know the shopkeep, Hassan ali-Haqim, to be a shrewd haggler. You've occasionally purchased a few colorful toys and exotic gewgaws for resale in the more drab interior of Varisia, but his prices don't allow much room for a profit margin.
Meanwhile, back in the street outside Nathanael Weatherby's place of business, Braddon has just given up on anything happening soon and settled in for a long and boring stake-out when he suddenly spies movement inside the office. The scribe can be seen placing some sort of note or placard in the bottom corner of the right-hand window before he steps out the front door, locks in behind him, and sets off quickly down the street to the south, glancing around him watchfully.
It's been a little more than half an hour since Malkith and Gristav left the office, Braddon. Are you going to follow him alone, signal to Daynadrian, go check out the sign he left in the window, or what?
Braddon Hurst |
"Praise Desna!"
Braddon works his way carefully to his feet, not wanting to make any sudden moves that may attract attention. He waves Daynadrian down, but doesn't stop for the elf. Instead, he walks briskly after Weatherby, but hanging back and keeping to the opposite side of the street so people are between them. He glances back at Dayn and waves the elf away when Dayn gets too close, then beckons him again when Dayn falls too far back.
He then ignores Daynadrian and focuses on the scribe.
Aware that his target is already suspicious, Braddon keeps in check his desire to get too close, but is happy to jog casually up to a corner that Weatherby has turned and peek carefully around. He ignores the growl of his stomach, occasionally checks to make sure Dayn hasn't lost him and continues through the streets of Riddleport, a hunter stalking his prey.
"I hope he doesn't see me. If he does, and runs, then it'll be toes when I catch him."
Gold Goblin |
Braddon follows Weatherby as he walks through the streets. He seems quite watchful, glancing around himself and over his shoulder frequently, but the half-elf keeps his distance, using other passersby for cover, and manages always to be gazing into shop windows or up at the signs over doors when the scribe looks in his direction. Daynadrian is not equally fortunate in avoiding the half-elf's glance; he begins to look frustrated as Braddon repeatedly fine-tunes the elf's tailing technique.
Weatherby goes about three blocks south before turning right toward the river. Braddon edges up against the wall of the building on the corner, peering around to gauge the distance to his quarry before committing himself to the next street. He follows the scribe until it becomes clear that the man is heading for the dock of the Velashu ferry.
Going to catch up and go across on the same boat with him or wait for the ferryman to return?
Braddon Hurst |
Having followed the man so far, Braddon is not about to let his quarry out of sight. He quickens his pace but tries to time his arrival at the dock to coincide with other passengers or while everyone engages in the fascinating activity of watching the boat slowly pull up and prepare for boarders, preferably both.
Braddon casts his mind back half an hour, fixes the bored look on his face and shuffles aboard the ferry. He grunts quietly as he pays the fare and sets himself towards the back, watching the retreating shore and paying no mind to anyone in the boat, though he does beckon once towards where Dayn may be watching.
At the other side, he is in no rush to disembark and uses the opportunity to let the scribe put some distance between them, before resuming the hunt. And if that helps Dayn track him easier on the next ferry, so much the better. Braddon figures Dayn has the idea now and ignores him, instead focusing all his attention on tailing the scribe.
Gristav |
...Stepping in the front door and setting a silver chime ringing with a more cheerful tone than the scribe's golden bell, he is mildly surprised to see the Keleshite shopkeep engaged in conversation with Phillip over the counter in the rear of the store.
Gristav at first let his eyes drift over the assembled oddities on offer, as was his habit here. But the conversation drew his eye, and his raising brows seemed to buoy him across the room, where he settled in plain view, and respectful expectant silence.
At the first suggestion either might be about to stop for his presence, Gristav hurriedly gestures open-handed, pleading patience. "Oh no, don't let me stop you. Two such as you, I almost feel myself a thief of the admission you might have charged. Do, haggle on.", he requests, smiling.
Phillip Hargreaves |
Turning his head at the sound Phillip notices Gristav and momentarily narrows his eyes assessing the half-elf's entry before offering a slight nod of tilted head by way of greeting. With that performed, he turns back to Hassan and awaits response to his latest question. Given Gristav's words, Phillip assumes that he has at least passing acquaintance with Hassan and so does not seek to elaborate unless requested.
Hassan ali-Haqim |
"A moment, sir, while I gather some wares for this fine gentleman," Hassan half-bows politely to Gristav before returning his attention to Phillip. "Ah, the attar: an intimate choice, worn directly on the naked flesh and intensifying with heat. This season of the year, you would desire a cool attar, to avoid undue warmth." He opens a cupboard behind the counter and muses a moment before extracting a few tiny crystal-cut vials.
"Attar of roses," he announces, setting the first tiny vial on the counter, "one of the newest of the oils to be distilled. For a woman who likes novelty and innovation, unbound by the traditions of the past."
"Attar of jasmine," he sets down the second of the vials, "from the mystic lands of Vudra, where the deities are as numerous as their worshippers. For the woman who is half-mortal, half-goddess."
"Khus," he goes on, laying down the third vial, "distilled from the root of the vetiver grass. Subtle and earthy, for she who is quiet and unassuming."
"Finally, two scents distilled from the flowers of Casmaron," he concludes, setting down the last two vials. "Kewda, a unique fragrance for the exotic beauty, and mogra, a sweet oil which bespeaks youth and innocence. Unstopper only one at a time," he cautions, "lest the fragrances mix. The attar, when worn, strikes a single clear note, not a symphony."
Leaving Phil to sample the scents, he turns back to Gristav. "Good day, sir. What treasure may I assist you in procuring this fine morning?"
Gristav |
"Leaves of palm? A broad-brimmed hat. A cribbage tallyboard, perhaps with cards. A draughts board and checkers, perhaps with the Shas and court emblazoned, or I could do that myself. Suitable for a... Sea voyage.", Gristav smirked at some private joke. "I'm told I have been at sea, of late. Imagine my surprise. Adrift, agreed. But at sea? Ah well, so you see why I've come. What others from sea have left with you, might dress me thus. If you've any of that?"
Phillip Hargreaves |
Phillip turns to watch Gristav interact with the shopkeep Hassan as he idly moves down the scents from first to last in order. Savoring the nuance of each individual bouquet, he finds the last to be the of most intriguing... floral, but with a piercing tone. The scent triggers a half-memory of Magnimar... a procession with tightly knitted garlands of white blossoms.
Mind made up, he crosses palms atop his stomach as he leans back, content to observe a moment.
Nathanael Weatherby |
Braddon approaches the ferry, trying to look like he's interested in anything but his fellow passengers, and one in particular. The man at the pole is Grimas Oltedler, and for a moment, Braddon is anxious lest he is recognized and questions asked on his previous crossings brought up. Before the ferryman can glance his way, however, Weatherby himself approaches the punter, withdrawing several copper coins from his belt pouch. "I need to be taken directly to the harbormaster's office, please," he enjoins in a clipped tone, less a request than a clear command.
Malkith Deraythen |
Malkith stalks the streets of Riddleport with no particular destination in mind.
Although they hadn't has a specific plan worked out, walking back into the scribe's office was just stupid. The Harrower had managed to avoid a physical confrontation with Weatherby and was just getting the man to talk when that fool Gristav gave them up. At least Braddon had stayed behind to watch the shop. The half-elf was rash, but competent. Perhaps they had shaken Weatherby enough to get him to flush Scarlet out.
As his head cleared and he accepted what the Fates had put before him, Malkith began to notice his surrounding more. He took the opportunity to appreciate the sights and sounds of the city, something he hadn't really had time to do in the last couple days. Eventually, he regained his clarity enough to realize that he had been neglecting his stomach for too long. Getting his bearing, Malkith headed off in the direction of the Golden Goblin while pondering what he might find in its larder.
Braddon Hurst |
Braddon curses silently under his breath.
"Where the nine hells is that? Who knew this thing did more than just cross the river?"
He takes a deep breath. "Well, if it was on that side of the river, he could have just walked there. And harbourmaster's office... must be close to the water. I'll just have to follow the ferry."
Braddon joins the other passengers disembarking on the west bank until he is out of sight of the ferry, then waves madly at Dayn and points in the direction it departed. He then makes his way along the street downriver, taking opportunities to check the water and trying to stay apace of the ferry and its occupant.
"This is much easier," Braddon tries to convince himself. "I can see where the boat goes and just get there before it. And with Dayn that side and me this side, we have both sides of the river covered." He doesn't feel very confidant though.
With the ferry limited in its choice of course, Braddon spends more time out of sight, but peeks around shoreline buildings occasionally to track the vessel.
Gold Goblin |
Malkith arrives back at the Gold Goblin and lets himself in by the back door; the front doors, now that the carpeting is done, remain barred against further trouble. A glance over the contents of the larder reveals nothing much beyond staples like flour and sugar, along with jars of pickled vegetables, but the kitchen still smells of coffee. Remembering Saul's habit of breakfasting upstairs, the Harrower decides to go up to the dining room to see if anything is left from the baker's morning delivery.
He finds Thuvalia still at the table. Plates and mugs at the head and the foot show where some of the others have breakfasted; the uncluttered long sides of the table reveal how the crew on the stake-out was missed. Thuvalia is seated in the middle of one of the long sides, her lone presence making her the head of her own wide table. The bakers' hamper is in front of her, where she can pick out the choicest pastries without having to get up from her chair. She glances up without much interest as Malkith comes in. "Oh, so you've made it back. Where's the rest of them?"
Hassan ali-Haqim |
"Dried palm leaves," the shopkeep nods, stepping around the counter to produce some from an oversized vase in a corner, mixed in with long quill-like tail feathers from a colorful bird, "cut and trimmed by island natives. Useable as a fan or to shoo away insects. Value negligible to the simple islanders, of course, but as rare a conversation piece in Riddleport as a pine cone would be on sandy palm-strewn shores."
"What games I have, you will find over here," Hassan goes on, leading Gristav past displays of carved stone trinket-boxes and Varisian idols. He moves aside a rack of beaded necklaces to reveal a scattering of gaming equipment: a pewter and wood cribbage board with spilikins shaped like rapiers; a dartboard made from the varnished cross-section of a tree trunk with colorfully-feathered darts; sets of many-sided dice carved from stone; a felt-lined box with hinged wooden tiles numbered 1 to 9; a deck of cards painted with somewhat lewd pictures of Qadiran women in various states of undress; a tiny set of skittles beneath a miniature gallows from which a wooden ball is suspended on a chain; a folding backgammon set in which the dice and checkers can be enclosed for ease of travel; and a set of ebony dominos inlaid with mother-of-pearl pips.
"If I may leave you a moment to peruse," Hassan excuses himself to return to Phillip. "You have found a fragrance which meets with your approval?"
Gold Goblin |
Taking comfort in the fact that he at least has a general idea where the scribe is headed -- the harbormaster's office must be in the harbor, right? -- Braddon makes his way down the west bank of the river, on a road that is becoming increasingly familiar to him. The current is hurrying the ferry downriver; Grimas's pole is being put to use merely to maintain the flatboat's position in the middle of the stream and keep it from drifting into eddies. Braddon finds himself scampering to keep up, as he catches glimpses of his quarry between the buildings along the riverbank.
As he approaches the Publican House, he can see Grimas docking his boat at a pier in the very mouth of the river on the east side of the Velashu. From across the water, he watches as Weatherby steps up off of the flatboat, nods to the ferryman, and enters a squat, round tower which overlooks both the river to the north and the harbor to the south. Grimas turns his face back up the Velashu with resignation and begins the hard work of poling his way back up the river against the current. A few rowboats are tied off at the Publican House's private docks, presumably belonging to patrons therein.
Phillip Hargreaves |
Phillip smiles broadly "Indeed I have... the Mogra is most to my liking. Two bottles, one for use and of a suitable size - the second need only contain the scarcest of amounts but in a way that odor will be preserved for as long as able. Is this acceptable?" pausing a moment before adding "The larger can be swaddled in black silk, while the lesser left unadorned."
Before talk of cost can commence, Phillip casts a slight glance with narrowed eyes at Gristav... measuring whether the next words would need be shrouded or passed with intent. Mind made post momentary thought Phillip delicately poses "The last is to wonder what wonders are lost in cupboards behind that which displays. Is there aught special that meets not the light of day for one reason or another?"
Bluff to pass secret message: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (20) + 11 = 31
Braddon Hurst |
Braddon rolls his eyes as Weatherby vanishes within the harbourmaster's office. He peers at the far bank to see if he can see Dayn and point out the building, but doesn't tarry before he briskly makes his way into the Publican House. He scans the shadows and corners for any sign of Lil then, assuming he doesn't see her, he heads over to the nearest table of sailors.
"A round of beers if one of you can row me across the river. Now." He smiles politely and watches to whom the majority cast their gaze.
Malkith Deraythen |
Malkith initially ignores Thuvalia's inquiry, choosing instead to help himself to what's left of the morning meal, including a few pastries. He shrugs as he samples a bite and once his mouth is clear says, "Still on the road." Prepared to leave without further explanation, the Harrower stops within the frame of the door and turns back to the woman, "Is Sam about?". He lingers only long enough for a reply.
Hassan ali-Haqim |
"The last is to wonder what wonders are lost in cupboards behind that which displays. Is there aught special that meets not the light of day for one reason or another?"
"I will not deny having a few special items tucked away ... for those with the means to afford them," Hassan responds in a low undertone, "but some goods draw uncomfortable scrutiny ... or unpleasant clientele."
"This is attar, my friend," he goes on in a more conversational tone, putting away the rejected vials, "not the perfumes concocted by alchemists in Magnimar which dissipate in the bottle and lose their scent on the skin. The attar can be treasured indefinitely and will only grow stronger and more fragrant with time. You could open this bottle fifty years hence, and it would still smell as sweet as the memory of a Varisian summer and a youthful dalliance, hey?" He picks up the crystal cut bottle of Mogra attar. "One small drop on your lady's skin each day, and this vial will last until the leaves are off the trees and she craves a warmer scent, amber or oud, to ward her body against the chill in the air. As for the other, a few drops in a cut-glass bottle will preserve the aroma beneath the stopper at your leisure. For the attar, six gold. I throw in the swaddle and the extra bottle for free." He waves his hand toward a display of decorative glass vials sparkling in the front window.
"Hats...," he turns back to Gristav. "I am no clothier, my friend, but it is my understanding that wide-brimmed hats are not in vogue at sea lest they be blown overboard? You could undoubtedly obtain a sailor's cap or an officer's tricorne in the Wharf District, either through mercantile channels or by snatching one off the head of a drunk or the stool of a tavern. I have a wide-brimmed hat with a feather, all the rage in Galt at one time, from what I've heard told, fezes in multiple colors, and some woven straw hats from the isles of the Shackles."
Gristav |
Gristav heard Philip. Even if he missed some shade of meaning, the shady part was plain. But Gristav didn't show it; if the merchant glanced over to check, he'd see Gristav parrying and minutely lunging a cribbage counter as if at the memory of his child-self, complete with feigned injury from the thrust. The sincere chuckle at his own antics was just as childlike, and when he stifled, straightened, and looked at the others as if caught, he certainly didn't seem to be eavesdropping...
Gold Goblin |
"A round of beers if one of you can row me across the river. Now." He smiles politely and watches to whom the majority cast their gaze.
The morning crowd at the Publican House looks familiar to Braddon: a table of tired-looking dwarves, another of jubilant sailors. The table in the corner where he first saw Lil Scarlet is notably unoccupied, however.
At his proposition, the table of sailors quiets and looks questioningly to a man with flowing black locks restrained by a kerchief wrapped tightly around his head. He considers a moment, an eyebrow quirked, then looks pointedly at one of the other men. "Dawkins, your sacrifice is appreciated, and we'll raise a mug of ale to you."
"Aye, cap'n." He rises to his feet, his expression between a smirk and a grimace. "Christen my memory, and hells take the lot of you for marooning me on the dry side of the river." He glances at Braddon. "Let my mates see the color of your coin, and I'm your oarsman."
Braddon Hurst |
Braddon looks around for Arnando or Eulalie.
"Ahoy. A round of drinks for this table thanks. And this gent here will be thirsty upon his return," he gestures a thumb towards Dawkins. "Give him all he can drink when he gets back. Take it from Sunday's gold."
With that, Braddon tries to make his way quickly to the docks with Dawkins, making some quiet conversation.
"Thanks for this. I'm on the tail of a murderer. Can't let them give me the slip. What's the word in harbour, these days?"
Samaritha Beldusc |
There is no one on the casino floor. The door to Larur's office is closed, and no light shows around it, although that doesn't mean the dwarf isn't working in the dark. It most likely does mean, however, that Samaritha isn't in there with him. Crossing to the guest wing, Malkith walks down the hallway to her door and knocks. There is a rustle of movement inside, then her voice asks warily, "Who is there?" When he speaks to identify himself, he scarcely has the words out of his mouth before he hears the lock unlatch and she flings the door open.
"Oh, thank Desna," she smiles. "When you weren't back by morning, I was worried something had happened. I...," she glances down the empty corridor. "Where's everyone else?"
Gold Goblin |
Braddon tries to make his way quickly to the docks with Dawkins, making some quiet conversation.
"Thanks for this. I'm on the tail of a murderer. Can't let them give me the slip. What's the word in harbour, these days?"
Arnando is in his usual place behind the bar, and at his nod of approval, Dawkins heads for the door. He raises his eyebrows when Braddon mentions murder, but this is Riddleport: he doesn't break pace. "One of your mates kissed the snickersnack, eh? Hope you even the score with the bastard."
Outside on the boardwalk, he steps into the nearest rowboat and mans the oars as he waits for Braddon to board. Once the half-elf is seated, the sailor sets to pulling. "Word in harbor? Mostly of tides and currents. Something in particular you're wondering about?"
Dawkins is a stong and seasoned oarsman, and the trip to the opposite shore doesn't take long. As much as he keeps the prow pointed upstream, the current of the river still pushes the boat seaward, and he ties off the boat to a pier on the harbor side of the river's mouth, just south of the squat tower that serves as the harbormaster's center of operations. During the coarse of the river crossing, Braddon attempts to keep an eye on the office door, but between his lower vantage point from the boat and the back of the structure itself interposing itself in his view for a short time as the current pushes the boat past, he can't be absolutely sure that Weatherby hasn't exited into the crowd of seamen coming and going on the wharves.
Phillip Hargreaves |
Phillip hears what is being said, as well as what is being implied, and nods satisfaction. "Done" a slight flicker of eye showing that any further discussion on the matter half-shadowed would be broached in confidence and without witness. He then began counting out the additional coin from his purse as Hassan saw to Gristav's needs.
Gristav |
"Ah, Hassan, all your wares are wonders. One might never leave here with anything ordinary, which would rarely be a problem... except today. I've need of draughts or cards and cribbage-comb, you've only the Kings of those suits, and I'd need Jacks or Sevens to fill my hand. My mistake, really, looking for the ordinary, here."
"Show me this broad hat. I do so miss my last. And if the feather doesn't suit, we might pluck one off a palm..."
Braddon Hurst |
... Dawkins heads for the door. He raises his eyebrows when Braddon mentions murder, but this is Riddleport: he doesn't break pace. "One of your mates kissed the snickersnack, eh? Hope you even the score with the bastard."
"My Gramma actually. The score will be evened. But we haven't found the body. I was wondering if any little old ladies have turned up in the harbour? Or elsewhere?" Braddon scans the shore for any sign of Daynadrian.
"What's the Harbourmaster's Office for? Is it just where you book passage? Warehouses? Deliveries?"
"I remember Markos telling me in great detail once, but that barmaid turned out to be such a screamer..."
He smiles dreamily and almost misses the response again. He chatters amiably until they dock.
"Thanks for your assistance. If you need someone found, or a strong arm for a fight, leave a message for Braddon Hunter at the Publican House."
He checks up the street before he makes his way around the squat tower, looking for windows to look in or elves to look out. He studiously avoids the doorway.
Hassan ali-Haqim |
"Ah, Hassan, all your wares are wonders. One might never leave here with anything ordinary, which would rarely be a problem... except today. I've need of draughts or cards and cribbage-comb, you've only the Kings of those suits, and I'd need Jacks or Sevens to fill my hand. My mistake, really, looking for the ordinary, here."
"Show me this broad hat. I do so miss my last. And if the feather doesn't suit, we might pluck one off a palm..."
"I am most gratified not to be able to accommodate you," the shopkeep grins. "If I am not mistaken, lower ranks of those suits are available at a lower rank of store: in Leeward Common for the Jacks or the wharves for the Twos and Threes. Indeed, I sell only treasures, that which is out of the ordinary; to disguise yourself as a common sailor, patronize a common store."
"Now, as to the hat," he goes on, moving behind the counter once again to retrieve a large box, "it is not common either, I assure you. A man wears this hat to be noticed and remembered, not to blend in with the crowd." He removes the lid and lifts out a wide-brimmed hat so black it has a blue sheen. One side is pinned up with a golden badge from which a mass of fluffy indigo feathers erupts. "I am told it was sold by a Galtan nobleman fortunate enough to escape the Final Blades, albeit at the cost of crossing the border with only the clothes on his back and the hat on his head. Still, better to lose the hat off his head than the head off his shoulders, no?"
Gold Goblin |
"My Gramma actually. The score will be evened. But we haven't found the body. I was wondering if any little old ladies have turned up in the harbour? Or elsewhere?"
Apparently some murders are beyond the pale, even in Riddleport; Dawkins performs a double-take. "That's colder than Arazni's embrace," he mutters. "We just made anchor this morning, but I haven't heard anything like that. Should have asked Arnando. I don't think I've ever seen him outside his tavern, but the man knows most of what goes on around Riddleport."
"What's the Harbourmaster's Office for? Is it just where you book passage? Warehouses? Deliveries?"
The oarsman scoffs. "Captain Creesy'd say it's good for nothing but a damned nuisance," he grimaces. "John Depuy collects the mooring fees for the Overlord, sells Riddleport flags to ward off the pirates, and controls the laders. But, aye, lubbers can inquire about passage or cargo there, and warehouse space rented. Deliveries are supposed to be arranged through him too, but Slyeg charges a hell of a customs fee; most locals arrange to meet the ship at the dock if they're expecting goods and collect them themselves before the laders get their hands on them."
Braddon steps up nimbly onto the dock and makes a quick reconnoiter of the area. The streets here are busier than those in Leeward, filled with sailors heading to and from their ships and laders with handcarts stacked with crates and barrels. Laughter and snatches of song mingle with oaths and voices raised in anger, and the cries of seagulls predominate everywhere. As the half-elf circles the tower, Daynadrian approaches from the north, a frown on his face.
The tower itself looks to be of older construction than the rest of the district, built of brown stones and crumbling mortar. In a few places, it has been repaired, and the newer stones and mortar are glaringly obvious. It stands two stories tall and appears to have been built for defense; a few hand-sized windows of tinted glass high in the first story allow in a modicum of light without permitting a way for an outside observer to see in; the second floor sports only arrow-slits, and the crenelated roof is undoubtedly accessible from within by a trap door. The door is stout wood, banded with iron.
Gristav |
"I am most gratified not to be able to accommodate you," the shopkeep grins. "If I am not mistaken, lower ranks of those suits are available at a lower rank of store: in Leeward Common for the Jacks or the wharves for the Twos and Threes. Indeed, I sell only treasures, that which is out of the ordinary; to disguise yourself as a common sailor, patronize a common store."
"I wouldn't want to be a common anything, and disguise is not the intent, more a wish to bolster a perception. You see, someone gave the impression I had served a certain ship... It's not untrue, but still incorrect enough that silent dressing of the stage could save the sense of deception, and ensuing bitterness. With a picture worth a thousand words, perhaps a worn crib-comb might spare five hundreds? That deck of Qadiran qu- ...iddity, for example, one might have to shout, to be heard over. A shame; I think I know that pentacle page."
"Now, as to the hat," he goes on, moving behind the counter once again to retrieve a large box, "it is not common either, I assure you. A man wears this hat to be noticed and remembered, not to blend in with the crowd." He removes the lid and lifts out a wide-brimmed hat so black it has a blue sheen. One side is pinned up with a golden badge from which a mass of fluffy indigo feathers erupts. "I am told it was sold by a Galtan nobleman fortunate enough to escape the Final Blades, albeit at the cost of crossing the border with only the clothes on his back and the hat on his head. Still, better to lose the hat off his head than the head off his shoulders, no?"
"For him, yes. For the rest of us? If the hat is valued for its construction, shouldn't the head be valued for its contents? Not that I know the man, to make a point of the observation. Certainly good for you...", Gristav congratulated Hassan, admiring the overstated piece with a critical eye. A mischievous mien took him, and he waxed whimsical. "It needs a grander man than I...", he said with a glance to meet Phil's eye. "That might be fun.". Gris smiled, and nodded softly, to himself, then seemed to calm and sober. "Alright, let us price the palms, perhaps the Qadiriennes? And how much, yes, how much, do you think the Galt aught gain? I know a head large enough, but for a cost to match."
Hassan ali-Haqim |
"Ah, yes, the pack of cards," Hassan smiles. "Carried all the way from the gateway to Casmaron. Sixteen silver coins for the set. And the hat...? Well, new, it must have cost more than twenty gold pieces, but of course, it is no longer new. And of course, its previous owner was a most motivated seller and let it go for less than it was worth. And of course, there are few men in Riddleport 'grand' enough, as you say, to wear it. Shall we say ... nine gold coins?"
Braddon Hurst |
Braddon intercepts Daynadrian, then steps around a corner where he can have some cover but still keep an eye on the area outside the office.
"Sorry about that. I wanted you to follow me, not him, so even if he saw me, he wouldn't see you. He knows so many of our faces already. He went in to the Harbourmaster's Office a short time ago. I don't think he's come out yet, but he suckered me across the river so I lost sight for a while. I don't think he's noticed me yet though. I'm thinking of going back to the shop, tailing him back home and paying him a midnight visit. I'll make sure he talks then. Are you okay?"
Gold Goblin |
"Sorry about that. I wanted you to follow me, not him, so even if he saw me, he wouldn't see you. He knows so many of our faces already. He went in to the Harbourmaster's Office a short time ago. I don't think he's come out yet, but he suckered me across the river so I lost sight for a while. I don't think he's noticed me yet though. I'm thinking of going back to the shop, tailing him back home and paying him a midnight visit. I'll make sure he talks then. Are you okay?"
"Yes, fine," the elf replies a bit grimly. "Had to cut away from the river for a block or two south of the Goblin and missed seeing where he went when he got off the ferry. Harbormaster? What do you think our clean-cut scribe is doing there?"
Gristav |
"Alright, let us price the palms, perhaps the Qadiriennes? And how much, yes, how much, do you think the Galt aught gain? I know a head large enough, but for a cost to match."
"Ah, yes, the pack of cards," Hassan smiles. "Carried all the way from the gateway to Casmaron. Sixteen silver coins for the set. And the hat...? Well, new, it must have cost more than twenty gold pieces, but of course, it is no longer new. And of course, its previous owner was a most motivated seller and let it go for less than it was worth. And of course, there are few men in Riddleport 'grand' enough, as you say, to wear it. Shall we say ... nine gold coins?"
"Done. Wait. Oh, that was sharp.", Gristav said appreciatively. "There's still the palms, then. What odds for the three as a parcel, the ladies, the leaves, and the lid, and all the costs at a third the total? Would you come to ten, for the three? And receipted thus?"
Gristav |
"Eleven. Discretely delivered, two locations. I'll escort the ladies, though we'll wrap them, too. And the paperwork to say ten."
Gristav |
A Galtan wore this. A noble. He escaped the Final Blades with his head, and this hat.
It's still a fine hat, and it's time it was worn again.
By someone worthy.
- Gristav
If ever you find
Of an evening
That you are warm enough
To require a fan
Please, ever, be assured
I stand happy to make use
Of whatever leave you grant me.
Braddon Hurst |
"Yes, fine," the elf replies a bit grimly. "Had to cut away from the river for a block or two south of the Goblin and missed seeing where he went when he got off the ferry. Harbormaster? What do you think our clean-cut scribe is doing there?"
Braddon thinks for a beat. "Harbouring?"
He smiles grimly. "He could be booking passage out of here. Or picking up a package. Or sending a message to Lil. Maybe it's for his work, but I doubt that considering his timing and his use of the ferry. We need to get in there and ask, but I don't want him to see me if he's still there. A decent bribe might get us a look at the Harbourmaster's books. Maybe we could get the loud rich guy to... no." Braddon frowns again."Sam...?" he smiles wistfully then frowns. "Too memorable."
"Wasn't Gristav a sailor? Malkith's good at talking. But he's seen them both. But the Harbourmaster hasn't. And he's probably heading out soon. Back to his office." Braddon doesn't clarify as he muses.
"Could you stay here and follow him if he comes out? I'm gonna head to the Goblin, see who I can find and come back here. If he heads out, follow him but if he goes back to the office, meet us back here. Make a scratch on this wood every two minutes, then if you're gone when I get back I'll know when you left. I shouldn't be long. I'll run."
Braddon waits for Dayn's assent, then bolts off towards the Goblin.
Hassan ali-Haqim |
Hassan affixes the missives to the outside of the parchment-wrapped packages with blobs of blue sealing wax; then he hands Gristav the pack of cards, enveloped for safe travel, and a doctored receipt, and Phillip the two vials, one swathed in silk, the other folded in a scrap of parchment. "Be careful they do not break in your pocket or your pack," he warns the halfling, "or your nostrils will cloy with the scent before you are rid of it. I thank you for your business, gentlemen. You, my friend," he addresses Phillip alone, "your coin has purchased another week's rent on the puzzle-box. Do not forget to redeem it in two Moondays' time."