"Good morning, lad," Saul greets Tendal cheerfully. "Aye, the coffee's right ... uh, different from yesterday's brew." He gives a glance down the table at Larur as he pauses and changes directions slightly in the middle of his sentence. "One man's wine is another man's vinegar, as they say," he concludes tactfully. "And speaking of wine, you're welcome to have a look behind the bar," he turns back to Phillip, "and see what might be missing. I thought we were quite well-stocked for opening night, but if you can point out any gaping holes in our liquor cabinet, we'll do what we can to plug 'em. Larur's in charge of ordering supplies; just let him know what you'd like to see and whence we can acquire it. As for carpentry, we'd probably arrange that through Cas Cazynsik at the shipyard."
"Phillip has suggested we consider adding a few small-sized tables and chairs to draw in the halfling crowd," he informs Tendal of the topic of discussion. "Cromarcky's done the same thing in one of his casinos in Free-Coin. We don't have the space to divide the bar like the Overlord has, though, between taller and shorter clientele. What would you say to setting them up in the smallest sitting room downstairs, the one La Barabbio and her gang used as a staging ground? We got by without the space this week, and I think we should use the spare room upstairs for the entertainment next time. A bit more elbow room since we'll have at least two lovely ladies on the playbill, and besides," he concludes dryly, "if they decide to rob us, it'll be more difficult for them to escape out a second-floor window."
Gristav leaves the dwarf grumbling under his breath about elves with their tongues hinged in the middle. When he has emerged into the morning light, he takes a moment to read the parchment Roldheim gave him. It reads: Attn Mr. Cleg Zincher. The bearer (one bearded male, elf blood) is a known courier to be enrolled and issued badge. Yours, etc., Tromard Roldheim. Uneffusive, but he supposes he's had less enthusiastic reviews.
Knowing enough of Riddleport to avoid the pickpockets and beggars of Rotgut District to the east, Gris travels north past the gladiatorial arena and through the rather amorphous market "square" of Leeward District, where several merchants are just unlocking their doors, opening their shutters, and setting out their wares for the beginning of the business day. Thought he has never had call to visit Zincher's Tenement before, he knows how to find it: a long, tall building which once rented out rooms but now serves as headquarters and residence for Cleg Zincher and his gang. Even this early in the morning, there are a few toughs at the foot of the short flight of stairs to the front door; while they are gathered around a barrel shooting dice on the top of it as if they were merely shiftless loiterers, they are quite evidently there to stand guard and get in the way of anyone trying to gain unauthorized entrance.
Phillip finished off his roll and eases catlike back into his chair as Saul queries Tendal on his opinion. He watches and waits Hmm, a private room set up for those of small stature... sounds like somewhere one could hold court in plain sight. allowing a small smile to show through his reflectiveness.
A casual study in obliviousness, the happily humming hurrying halfelf showed in his course and pace every innocent intention of sailing past the gaming guards. He even managed a sort of startle as one stepped into his path, not too close to the level-held staff end. Gristav took a half-step back, at-ease-ing his staff at his shoulder and on-side foot, wrapped into his arm, as he held his hands together and pondered the interruption of his course and tune and thoughts, with evident difficulty. "Ah!", he said after a heartbeat, "Of course. Courier for Mister Zincher." He danced a quarter-step back to begin again his stride, but the blocker hadn't yielded.
"Courier with a message for Zincher.", he said, tapping on the doubled bags draped over his torso, though the letter and the commission that started the mess were both folded in his shirt. "Is there some problem?", the halfelf asked puzzledly.
Tendal frowns with a quizzical expression at Phillip's motioning. Not understanding what Phillip is hinting at he shakes his head slightly as he turns his attention back to Saul.
"That is an excellent idea Mr. Vankaskerkin. I am not certain that I like the idea of simply having a private sitting room. It somehow seems incomplete...If we can find some way of including appropriate settings in the main room, either on a second level or set to the side..."
A small, slightly unpleasant smile flashes across Tendal's face, as if he is considering all the many permutations of a thought in a bare second.
"I have a second thought Mr. Vankaskerkin, simply trying to match our competitors is not enough, we have to find ways to be both better and different. So put the seating area close against the stage. Then you can charge patrons a third more for the premium seating. They will not impede the view of anyone else, and the Gold Goblin gets known as an upscale destination for those of smaller stature."
He turns to look at Phillip, "What do you think Mr. Hargreaves? Would you pay more for premium seating and a bit of upscale service?"
Samaritha looks startled, then amused as Braddon comes stumbling out his door and almost barrels into her. "Good morning," she replies, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "You have more trouble with sharp things in your boots, don't you?" She waits for Braddon to recover his balance and fall in beside her before continuing down the hall. "I was just going to make another pot of tea for the morning. You want to carry the tray upstairs for me again?"
"Glad to be of help," responds Braddon following Samaritha to the kitchen. "The blade is meant to be easy to pull out. If you need it, chances are you're dead if it isn't in your hand before the trouble reaches you. If you're standing on it when you need it... well, you'll be lucky if you only end up with a sore foot."
"So, did I miss anything exciting last night?"
Phillip raises an eyebrow and holds a few seconds before responding "No Mr Tendal... I would not. I think also you overestimate the wealth of the common halfling... we are servants, laborers, sailors... not nobles with coin to waste on frivolity. Give them skiffs to play and a liquid taste of distant pasture and they will stay. Try and screw a common halfling from his coin before he's at table and you'll fail to keep them."
"A side room would serve better than in the midst on display. And I thought the aspiration was to be a casino rather than a restaurant or cabaret?"
Malkith tucks the Demon's Lantern back into the deck and shoves the entire stack of cards into the folds of his robes. With a heavy sigh he climbs to his feet. If the Fates were correct, things weren't going to get any easier today. Tucking a few loose scarves into position, the Harrower makes his way out of his room and into the hall.
Seeing no one else around, he heads for stairs. As expected, Saul and company are already enjoying breakfast in Saul's suite. He helps himself to a pastry and some bread before greeting the other occupants.
"Ah. Merely a thought, nothing more. Apparently I am less aquainted with the working class than I had presupposed. Perhaps it is because I have never interacted with common halflings." Tendal says with a slight frown.
"The corollary of which is that the halflings that I did interact with in Magnimar were then uncommon halflings. That is moderately disappointing. Extraordinary traders." Tendal says, looking at Phillip.
"So, did I miss anything exciting last night?"
Setting a kettle of water on the stove to heat, Samaritha seems unduly flustered by the question. "Last night? I ... no ... what did you...? I mean...," she takes a breath and starts over. "Daynadrian came back in with that pretend-Chelaxian of his, and Mr. Vankaskerkin sent him to escort home a gnome that was upstairs for some reason, and then he came back and...." She stops again and then shakes her head. "You know what? It's none of my business. How was the Publican House last night? I hear it's busy in the evenings."
A touch of ice, and a sparkle among the eye "Oh I don't doubt that Mr Tendal... perhaps your thoughts would be better spent thinking on how you'd part yourself from your own money? After all, you do seem to fit the profile for a high rolling gambler with money to burn..."
"Courier with a message for Zincher.", he said, tapping on the doubled bags draped over his torso, though the letter and the commission that started the mess were both folded in his shirt. "Is there some problem?", the halfelf asked puzzledly.
"Boss ain't expecting no messages so early in the morning," one of the men responds belligerently, "specially from a stranger."
"Yeah," another pipes up. "We ain't seen you here before. No one sends the boss a message by a stranger, less'n they're wanting him to get roughed up."
A smile boils across the third man's face at the prospect of some early-morning violence to start off his day. "Who you made an enemy of, elf-man," he asks, cracking his knuckles in anticipation, "that they sent you here to take a beating?"
Gris is on the verge of defending himself (and perhaps wishing he'd taken an hour to prepare spells before his arrival) when the door opens, and a large man walks out, dressed in what appears to be a rather threadbare and grimy uniform. He has a steel shield strapped to his back and a longsword at his belt. The toughs menacing Gristav jump nervously at his appearance.
"What's all this then?" the new arrival asks, sweeping his eyes suspiciously over the scene.
"Stranger says he has a message for Zincher," one of the men volunteers subserviently. "We thought it was a game, like...." He trails off as the uniformed man quickly loses interest in his words and turns his eye on Gristav.
"Message, is it?" he asks. "Who from? What's your business here?" he rattles out the questions with the air of a man used to interrogation.
Gristav took it all in with a confident air, finally nodding approvingly at the swordsman. "It is, a message. Addressed to Cleg Zincher. If he's not available, I'll wait. Who from, and my business, well...", Gristav says of the trio of thugs, "If it had been their business, and they'd treated it as business, you'd not have had to make it yours. I reckon they've lost the right to hear it. Were you out to breakfast? Let me fill a Guardsman's cup, would you? I'd welcome your guide to whatever's near and worthy, if you'd grant it."
The uniformed man grunts noncommittally, apparently unmoved by Gristav's charm offensive. "You," he selects of one of the three, seemingly at random. "Breakfast for the boss, and plenty of it. You," he turns back to Gris as the tough takes off at a run. "In." He goes back in the front door, not looking back to ensure Gristav is following before it closes.
Gristav does indeed follow the guard-uniformed irregular. "Do they always threaten callers? Or only before breakfast? Is that policy?", he asks.
The man doesn't reply as he leads Gristav inside, turning left down a corridor. The interior of the tenement is dimly-lit, the windows barred over with metal grates for security. Several of the doors along the narrow hallway are open, revealing small cells with straw-tick mattresses on cots. Men, and some women, in various stages of undress look on with interest as the half-elf strolls through; glancing back, he sees several men come to their doors and lean against the jambs to watch the two advance down the corridor. It occurs to Gristav as he keeps a rough count in his head of the number of men between him and the door that this is not a place he'd want to have to fight his way out of.
His guide opens a door at the end of the hallway, pokes his head in, and grunts affirmatively as he pushes it all the way open to reveal a rather shabby common room: a patched leather settee, rough wooden table, and matching chairs. He motions Gristav in with a wag of his head, follows, and shuts the door behind them.
"I can tell you straight up, the boss is still in bed with a lady friend and like to stay there a while," he says bluntly. "It's no skin off my nose if you want to ride a chair several hours until he'll see you, but you'll be locked in here until then. Your other option's I'm Zincher's capp. Anything that's business and not personal I can handle and send you on your way. Your choice."
Having nodded a greeting to Malkith while listening to Tendal and Phillip, Saul ventures, "You're both right, in that there's at least two different sets of clientele we could appeal to. One's your average laborer, halfling or no, with less than a gold piece in his pocket to spare; he's not going to spend a lot, but he's not going to win a lot, either."
"On the other hand," he goes on, nodding to Tendal, "you've got the discriminating man of leisure. He's got more spare coin jingling in his pocket than our first kind of customer earns in a month, but it's going to take a pretty big pot to impress him. Now Cromarcky can afford to go after both crowds. He's got three separate properties, because our man of leisure doesn't want to be rubbing elbows with common sailors and laborers and the kinds of games and payouts that appeal to a wealthy man, your average harbor lader can't afford to ante into."
"Sadly," he concludes, "with our present location in the River District, as it is now," he points out with a significant glance at Tendal, "we're not going to draw the crowd that's used to frequenting the House of Nabin. They're just not going to be seen between the Reek District and the wharves. The only man I saw the other night with a house in Windward was old Galen Krump the tanner. He married a Windward girl and got the house along with her, but he's never fit in up there; and his present wife, Shelyn preserve her, is roundly snubbed, even by his own children. We could offer gold bricks and platinum nose rings as door prizes, and we wouldn't draw a Windward crowd. Our best bet, at the moment, is to aim for quantity rather than quality."
Letting the latent comment to Tendal lie, Phillip instead queries Saul a bit further "What exactly are we permitted and denied under the watchful eye of the Overseer? I know that we've but one day to operate in the most profitable manner and they shut up restaurants and cafes outside Free-Coin after darkness on the other six. Surely there are some loopholes that could see exploit?"
Phil also keeps a side glance on Larur to check the dwarf's approval or disproval of the Sargavan Red.
Setting a kettle of water on the stove to heat, Samaritha seems unduly flustered by the question. "Last night? I ... no ... what did you...? I mean...," she takes a breath and starts over. "Daynadrian came back in with that pretend-Chelaxian of his, and Mr. Vankaskerkin sent him to escort home a gnome that was upstairs for some reason, and then he came back and...." She stops again and then shakes her head. "You know what? It's none of my business. How was the Publican House last night? I hear it's busy in the evenings."
"The Publican House was packed, but it was all work, work, work for Malkith and I. Lil Scarlet is nowhere to be found, so we might try the Publican House again this morning. That seems to be when she visits. And the Kruft's maid is definitely part of Bott's kidnapping gang. She was one of the girls the shapeshifter passed Ananda to."
Braddon looks at Samaritha's puzzled face."The Krufts?" repeats Braddon doggedly. "The tanner and his wife? I'm sure it was something like that." Braddon shrugs.
"So, are you okay? What's none of your business? What did Daynadrian do? Do you want me to talk to him? Did he try something? I can smash him if you want!" Braddon's features move quickly from caring to curious to kind to concern to contempt.
"I can tell you straight up, the boss is still in bed with a lady friend and like to stay there a while," he says bluntly. "It's no skin off my nose if you want to ride a chair several hours until he'll see you, but you'll be locked in here until then. Your other option's I'm Zincher's capp. Anything that's business and not personal I can handle and send you on your way. Your choice."
"I thank you for your candor. I'd rather have the business done, and sooner. Shame though, it was a lovely rant. But no injury from you; I'll spare you the blood and just serve the meat of the matter. I'm a courier, arrived last night as was habit, a commission for the forges a part of my bag. But the usual dwarf and method both were gone, and I'm told I can't make delivery without a badge I can't get until the morning. So a night about Riddleport (and no lack of tale on that dog; suffice it I had more need for my staff than my wand), and I'm back to the forges, and from there, to here...", Gristav said, producing by flourish what was hidden beforehand. He set the 'recommending' note between them, having it settle the last inch as though through oatmeal. {Oatmeal...}, he drove the thought away, or rather, down, and continued, "...the morning's dwarf all full of assurances of how all this was for my benefit. While I found the night bracing, and the hunger will contrast well with my breakfast, I cannot charitably consider the things I've gone without as proper perquisites. Lack is never lagniappe."
"Do you see?! It's put me out of mind of my manners.", Gristav laments, drawing breath, calming himself. "Sir.", he preambles, coming to a civilian's attention, a proper demi-bow punctuating the title and hand proferred, "I am Gristav."
The man's hand is already halfway out to pick up the parchment in question; with a vague expression of annoyance on his face, it makes a detour to give Gristav's proffered appendage a brief if bonecrushing shake. "Faje, Braddikar Faje," he grunts, distracted, as he runs his eyes over the note from the Gas Forges. With a grunt, he turns and opens the door to the hallway again, shouting down it, "" He leaves the door ajar, and Gris can hear the flurry of several men rushing to fulfill the order.
"This is nothing; have you out of here in no time," Faje assures him. "Damn dwarf could have gone ahead and taken your damn commission, saved you a trip back." It is a matter of mere moments before one of the thugs from the corridor appears at the doorway with a small strongbox, breathless and crowded by several of his fellows who want credit for having jumped at the order as well; Faje takes it from him without a glance and sets it on the table, unlocking it with a key from his belt. Inside are several shiny pot-metal badges, along with a ratty quill and a stoppered pot of ink with at least as much of its contents hardened on the outside as useful on the inside. "Here," he says, unstoppering the ink with a dirgeful shower of black flakes and setting it on the table with the quill. "You sign your name to Roldheim's parchment, and I give you a badge. Easy as that."
"The Publican House was packed, but it was all work, work, work for Malkith and I. Lil Scarlet is nowhere to be found, so we might try the Publican House again this morning. That seems to be when she visits. And the Kruft's maid is definitely part of Bott's kidnapping gang. She was one of the girls the shapeshifter passed Ananda to."
Braddon looks at Samaritha's puzzled face.
"The Krufts?" repeats Braddon doggedly. "The tanner and his wife? I'm sure it was something like that." Braddon shrugs.
"There's Laz Krupt, whose tavern burned down, and I think Galen Krump is the tanner. I haven't heard of any Krufts."
"So, are you okay? What's none of your business? What did Daynadrian do? Do you want me to talk to him? Did he try something? I can smash him if you want!" Braddon's features move quickly from caring to curious to kind to concern to contempt.
"What?! No! Nothing like that," she laughs. "He just came in and said good night, a perfect gentleman. It was...." She shakes her head again, setting the teapot and several cups and saucers on the tray. "Look, it's none of my business. Just someone had an overnight guest. Or I guess she stayed the night. I never heard her leave. There, now carry that tray upstairs for me."
"Simple as that.", Gristav agreed, taking up the referral note, and scribing upon it, with neither pen nor ink, but the expected nib-scritch:
Rec'd of Braddikar Faje,
One pot-metal Courier's badge;
Of one ounce, approx.,
And two fingers' across.
Set in my hand
By Braddikar Faje.
The mysticked ink was dry at once (it had actually never been wet), but Gristav waved the parchment nevertheless, trying to skitter the dried bits of mundane ink away in that draft. Less than successful at that, Gristav passed the parchment to Faje, and turned magics on the dried discards.
"A pleasure doing business, Faje. Have you a title? They all jump too fast to acknowledge a command.", Gristav smiled toward the door. "What might I call you?"
'Old Korvosa' is bemused and then suspicious of the half-elf's unusual manner of writing, frowning at the arcane inscription and turning the parchment over from back to front, but the wording is sufficient. "'Gristav, bearded male, elf blood'" he repeats, his eyes darting between the half-elf's face and the paper to verify the accuracy of the description, With a grunt of satisfaction, he folds the parchment. "I recommend you not shave the beard," he advises.
"A pleasure doing business, Faje. Have you a title? They all jump too fast to acknowledge a command.", Gristav smiled toward the door. "What might I call you?"
"'Sir,'" Faje growls, his eyes hard; then, after a beat, a predatory grin surges across his face. "Or Mr. Faje. This isn't Korvosa," his voice drips with contempt. "No hierarchy here where one man thinks he's better than another because of his title or family name. In Riddleport, they let water seek its own level." He heads for the door to the hallway, the audience seemingly over. "You have business here again, you show that badge," he instructs. "Can't promise service with a smile, but it'll get you past the goons at the door with your nose unbroken." As he swings the door fully open, a knot of eavesdroppers quickly disperses itself, leaving the corridor clear for passage. "Roldheim shouldn't give you any more trouble at the Gas Forges. See yourself out." He strides back the way he just came, once again neglecting to look back to see if Gris is following.
'Old Korvosa' is bemused and then suspicious of the half-elf's unusual manner of writing, frowning at the arcane inscription and turning the parchment over from back to front, but the wording is sufficient. "'Gristav, bearded male, elf blood'" he repeats, his eyes darting between the half-elf's face and the paper to verify the accuracy of the description, With a grunt of satisfaction, he folds the parchment. "I recommend you not shave the beard," he advises.
"SHAVE it?!", Gristav exclaims. "It was near a year's work to grow it!"
Gristav, as directed, sees himself out of the tenement. And past the noses at the door with the goons unbroken. Wasn't that what Faje had said? Gris grinned as he set his course south, for the forges. He'd be rid of another document, soon. Just in time to create another...
"What exactly are we permitted and denied under the watchful eye of the Overseer? I know that we've but one day to operate in the most profitable manner and they shut up restaurants and cafes outside Free-Coin after darkness on the other six. Surely there are some loopholes that could see exploit?"
"You've the gist of it," Saul replies to Phillip. "Moondays through Stardays, eateries outside of Free-Coin shut their doors at sunset. Alcohol can be served, else the sailors would riot at the wharves, but nothing resembling a meal. Reason given is to concentrate after-dark activity in a single area for better policing and security, but everyone knows it was a gambit to drive traffic to the Overlord's doorstep." He half-turns in his chair as Braddon and Samaritha enter the room, Braddon bearing a tray with a steaming pot of tea. "Ah, good morning, my dear," he beams at the redhead. "And Braddon, of course."
"The Krumps! Yes, that's what she said."
Braddon takes up the tray and follows Samaritha upstairs.
"Someone had an overnight guest? Oooh. Well, I figure our rich employers can afford to have guests whenever they want. They have needs. Unless it was one of us. In which case, cool. We've only been here two days, and we're pulling already. Unless it was a working girl. They could be spies for Shorafa. Hmm, you should ask Saul what the rules are for overnight guests." Braddon grins.
When he enters the room, Braddon dumps the tea and grabs some rolls. "Good morning, sir. Last night went well. One of the maids that brought Mescher's daughter here was the tanner's maid. I reckon she's working for Bott. Would you like me to bring her in for questioning? And we didn't find Lil, but she's usually at the Publican House in the mornings."
"Someone had an overnight guest? Oooh. Well, I figure our rich employers can afford to have guests whenever they want. They have needs. Unless it was one of us. In which case, cool. We've only been here two days, and we're pulling already. Unless it was a working girl. They could be spies for Shorafa. Hmm, you should ask Saul what the rules are for overnight guests." Braddon grins.
"I'll do no such thing!" Samaritha retorts tartly with mock umbrage but a real blush. "Perhaps you should, if you think you'll be making frequent use of the policy."
As they enter the dining room, she returns Saul's smile politely and Malkith's a little more warmly. "Tea?" she offers, filling her own cup.
Phillip gives the new arrivals an amicable nod "Perhaps I will have a cup after all." rising to serve himself a mug of the Red before pacing slightly with carafe in hand "Alcohol is permitted you say... but no food." idly wondering as he sees Larur's empty cup "Here let me get that" filling it while he elucidates on his thoughts further "One thing that I did note a lack of in the Free-Coin was entertainment of a more urbane variety..." finishing filling the dwarf's mug and returning the carafe to the side.
"Mayhap arrange a band and a bit of decking... dancing? A small cover charge to recoup the costs of performers and then drink to turn a mild profit? Would the Overseer frown upon such creative interpretation of his laws?" returning to his chair and bolster and raising cup to Larur.
Gristav swaggers out of Zincher's Tenement, offering his would-be tormentors at the front door a jaunty salute. From there, he cuts back through Leeward Common, where all the shops are now open and the well-trod court around the well dotted with street vendors and farmers' handcarts offering fresh milk and vegetables. From the interior of the arena comes the sound of battle-grunts and clanging weaponry as the gladiators train in the relative cool of the morning. The chimneys of the Gas Forges are spilling acrid clouds into the sky as the day shift gears up within. He displays his newly-acquired badge to Roldheim a bit derisively and finally rids himself of the commission he's been carrying since Nybor.
Pocketing the cheaply-made token, he passes the arena once again, heads west past the curiosity shop run by a Keleshite merchant and the self-serious and overpriced inn, The Mystery of the Gate, back to the Gold Goblin. The double doors in the front are still shut and barred so he returns to the humbler entrance on the back alley and once again raps for admittance. After a moment, a male voice responds cautiously from within: "Who's that, and what's your business?" Neither Larur nor (alas!) Samaritha.
:)
---
"Who's that, and what's your business?"
"Last night's shadow, fallen again. For dwarf, or flame librarian. Business with each, not both, I have. Relay my name. I am Gristav."
Phillip's keen ears had heard a certain conversation as it was freely held outwith the conference room and allowed himself a small smile of acknowledgement before a brief sigh of reflection - wondering if his nocturnal visitor had made her way safely back home and then to the stifling repression of her workplace. A book as yet unwritten... but there are hints of prose that have potential.
Adding to his first query, he poses a statement that might betray information "Ahh, another issue... would it be possible to obtain a key to at least one of the doors of the casino? It would make it somewhat easier to return in the evening without needing to rouse another."
"Now that is a thought worth pursuit Mr. Hargreaves. A saloon and entertainment venue. It might get a bit raucous without serving food, but I believe that there are ways to mitigate that somewhat. We could also see about a gentleman's club." Then a slight smirk crosses his face for a moment. "A secret gentleman's club. A hint of danger, a hint of bending the rules in a suitably unsavory location with a "hidden" area. That might draw out the gentlemen of Windward." he says, tapping his cane on his thigh as he thinks aloud.
Bored of the talk about business, Malkith is surprised at his relief to see Braddon enter the room, but he can't help but smile as Samaritha follows. "That would be wonderful," Malkith says, accepting Samaritha's offer of tea. He watches her, rather than the tea, as she pours. With a small salute of thanks he takes a sip.
"Braddon and I were going to head back out this morning and see if we couldn't catch Scarlet while she is, er, recuperating from last night's work."
"Who's that, and what's your business?"
"Last night's shadow, fallen again. For dwarf, or flame librarian. Business with each, not both, I have. Relay my name. I am Gristav."
There's a moment of silence and then the voice, sounding annoyed: "Oh, for... Wait there."
"Good morning, sir. Last night went well. One of the maids that brought Mescher's daughter here was the tanner's maid. I reckon she's working for Bott. Would you like me to bring her in for questioning? And we didn't find Lil, but she's usually at the Publican House in the mornings."
Saul frowns. "Galen Krump's household? We don't need to make any unnecessary enemies in Windward. I suppose it's worth questioning her, but don't bring her back here to do it or mention that you're working for the Goblin, if you can help it."
"Krump's name keeps coming up," Larur glowers, with a grudging nod at Phillip for the refill, "and I think it's worth pointing out -- and don't keep making those hemming and hawing gestures at me, Saul, because it's a bare fact and might be important -- his wife used to be one of Shorafa's girls."
"Come on now, Larur," Saul puts in appealingly. "You really think Desy Krump is involved in some sort of elaborate plot against us? Of all people, I won't start throwing stones at people over their pasts."
"She was part of Shorafa's flock for years," the dwarf rasps stubbornly. "Nothing to say she's not still under her thumb if Shorafa called in a favor. Or Lil or Bott, for that matter. They all ran together."
Saul shakes his head. "Well, at least be discreet about it, if you must broach the topic," he appeals to Braddon. "Poor woman has a hard enough time of it up there on the Pretentious Precipice. I wonder sometimes if she regrets accepting Galen's offer to make an honest woman out of her."
"Mayhap arrange a band and a bit of decking... dancing? A small cover charge to recoup the costs of performers and then drink to turn a mild profit? Would the Overseer frown upon such creative interpretation of his laws?" returning to his chair and bolster and raising cup to Larur.
"I'd wager the size of the frown would depend on the degree of our success with the concept," Saul grins. "Main risk I can see is that if it proved popular, Cromarcky would coopt it. He has the space to erect a dancehall of his own in Free-Coin and the influence to hire away any musicians we might employ. Still... short-term, it could prove coin in our pockets. Maybe give it a trial run at Varisian caravan night this week since we'll need music anyway for our dancing beauties, eh?" He gives Samaritha a cheeky wink.
Samaritha chokes on her sip of tea. "I... the... what?" she manages.
Adding to his first query, he poses a statement that might betray information "Ahh, another issue... would it be possible to obtain a key to at least one of the doors of the casino? It would make it somewhat easier to return in the evening without needing to rouse another."
She recovers enough to put in firmly. "Yes. I mean, I have no intention of being out late, as long as you're kind enough to let me stay here, Mr. Vankaskerkin, but you can't hear a knock at the door from up here, and I have no intention of staying up all hours to let people in. I answered the door enough times last night."
"Shouldn't ask you to, my dear," he grins chivalrously. "Don't believe doorman and bouncer is on your list of duties. Suppose we could set Bojasc down there with an edifiying tome of some kind to pass the time?" He grins at his bodyguard and is rewarded with a deadpan glare. "Larur," he goes on breezily, "can you go by the locksmith and have some extra keys made today?"
The dwarf draws a scrap of paper and a stick of charcoal from his pocket with an air of long-suffering. "Carpet," he reads and then uses his charcoal to add, with a glance at Phil, "Halfling-size furniture... keys."
As if to underscore Samaritha's point about knocks at the door, Daynadrian joins the group. "Some wandering troubadour or would-be poet at the door?" he inquires sourly. "Indicated he might have business with you," he nods to Larur. "Said his name was Gristav? Oh, and...," he removes a folded handkerchief from his pocket and drops it on the table. "We found that among Volo's effects in Lubbertown yesterday. Thuvalia says that's the perfume the woman who put him up to the job wore."
At the name Gristav, Larur's face lightens in recognition, but Samaritha jumps to her feet. "Oh! I'll go and let him in," she offers quickly, "if that's all right." She barely waits for the dwarf's nod of permission before she is out the door, with a quick apologetic look back at Malkith. "Be right back."
Saul turns an inquiring look on Larur as Samaritha leaves the room. "Old acquaintance," the dwarf replies gruffly. "Just came in town last night and stopped by. Told him we was hiring if he was looking for a job." He glances around at the table of new employees somewhat defensively.
You wait next to the woodpile, more or less patiently. After some moments, you hear the sound of the latch being raised inside, and Samaritha opens the door with a smile, a little out of breath as if she has hurried to get there. "Good morning," she smiles. "You've come back for your book."
"Back at the book, I intend, but not for, as if to take it away." Gristav smiled, a shade of breathless himself, adding in Varisian, "You needn't have hurried; you're worth the wait." As though reminded, he asked, [b]"Would you have a bit of paper, too? I've a... something I'd like you to read. And, might I come in? I've another report to make, to Larur. Eventually." He spoke this last word in Common, with a faint smirk.
You recall that Larur brews a particularly vile pot of coffee.
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Gristav smiles in appreciation of her blush. What had he said? He would have to say it again. If he could remember it.
"If you want to go on up, I could get your book and some paper and ink and bring them. There's breakfast upstairs too, and coffee and tea." She smiles. "I don't know if you ever found your stew."
The lady spoke in chapters. Well, he spoke in verse, sometimes. He made a mental list, and answered her points; "Found the stew, and ale and hammock beside. And a Garundi witch, and a boarding party, a plotting dwarf who sent me to be beaten, I'm told, though I'm not sure I believe it, and I wasn't, in any case. And breakfast?, yes, please! Leave the book for later, but a paper, sooner, or... even...", his eyes fell on one of her scarves, and he drew a breath, then hissed it out, the sound of an iron on wet cloth, while his hands sketched a square. A web of wyrd warped and wefted in between, fading from its flare into a flimsy fabric. "This will do.", Gristav said, to a scritching sound that sounded from his side of the cast-cloth. The nibbish scritching done, he gathered the corners of the cloth, and passed the closed cloth to Samaritha, pressing it into her hand. "I'm just... not quite brave enough to stand here while you read that.", he said, and made his exit through the kitchen.
On the cloth, in Gristav's hand:
As you look to my script, might you see there my hand?
And from hand then to eye? And might then, though unplanned
Find in that aught of charm, or of meriting wit?
I'd dream of you last night, let me tell you of it.
You stood, brandished my book, scolded, I was remiss
How could I wander whence, when my path led to this?
And you said, 'come and take it'. And I smirked, in my dream
But I woke 'fore I reached you, so it lingers, that theme
Un-called-for, I'll admit, another's voice intruded
To some sailor, she called, while you I dreamed, deluded
Still unshaken, the dream, your wrathful invitation
And my smirking trespass, kissing intitiation
How unfair, to a maid, for some one other's calling
To set a spark adrift, into dry heart's leaves falling
So I scribe now unpenned, magic colours each word
And speak no more upon't, until your voice is heard.
Phillip shows no sign of distress at hearing of new hires and the potential expansion of workforce - More pieces upon the chessboard just serve to heighten the game. He does lean over to Larur and speak quietly "Will you be arranging with Cas Cazynsik to acquire the furniture?... I've a few requests to make. It would be nice to have a few articles within my chamber more advantageously sized to my person. The butchered Northern beasts I find quaint and would like to keep, but it is a chore to need a stepladder to get into bed. Might you countenance some accompaniment on that particular errand?"