"Who is this Mistress Vishki?" Samaritha asks Braddon and Malkith. "I mean, I know she's the general's daughter's governess, but ... who is she? Someone in Lubbertown must know her, or know of her. Granted, Vishki's not an uncommon name, but what's her first name? Knowing where she came from, who her associates were ... it might help."
"Lil went freelance some time ago," Daynadrian answers. "Decided she could charge more on her own than Shorafa would sanction. She moved into a private room somewhere in Leeward District that she operated out of. Then came the trouble with Orik and Falk. She went back to the temple for Shorafa's protection. But she's not there now, and Rose ... well, a lot of people think she never gave up her own place. We have it narrowed down to a handful of blocks between the House of the Silken Veil and the Velashu River where it must be."
"If Lil's somewhere between the temple and the river, I'd say she's nearer the river. Better to go everywhere. The longer the trip she has to take to the river, the more chance of being spotted by people she doesn't want to see her."
"Who is this Mistress Vishki?" Samaritha asks Braddon and Malkith. "I mean, I know she's the general's daughter's governess, but ... who is she? Someone in Lubbertown must know her, or know of her. Granted, Vishki's not an uncommon name, but what's her first name? Knowing where she came from, who her associates were ... it might help."
"And that's a great idea Sam. The tea shop girl said she was very private and didn't get guests, but someone must know her. For Desna's sake, the General entrusted his daughter to her. Though Ananda never mentioned a first name..."
"Well, everybody has a first name. Even if they don't make it part of their second or third." Gristav worked at the slate, expanding the Tien he'd used to shorthand Braddon's testimony into more common runes. "If we'll be searching riverside Leeward...", he flatted the chalk against the board, slanting his quill and rolling it to a stutter that could have meant waves, "... and where else? I've made an impression, if not an entre' to friendship, with the public ferryman. I shouldn't expect him to speak in detail of his passengers, but he might of his competition, and they might, speak of theirs... Passengers. I can make asking him of other crossings seem innocent." Gristav began a smile, but saddened and sobered. "Or at least, comical."
Setting down the chalk, Gristav rose, sweeping up Braddon's and any other unpurposed drinkware. "Anyone? Another? A first? The tea's not the best; not the worst. Try it prepared by one hand, as intended; Garundan defense 'gainst the heat, sweet cream-blended.", he marketman sing-songed, then asked simply, "But an ale, for Braddon?"
"Ale? Sure." Braddon gladly takes the drink, but sips slowly as he ponders.
"The ferryman is only too happy to share information if we ask. Unless, it seems, someone's paid him not too. He recognised the gaggle of maids and he knows Lil crosses elsewhere. And he doesn't like the idea that people exist that aren't forced to use his services."
Braddon takes another sip and offers, "I'm happy to check round Leeward tomorrow. Though I dunno if just walking the streets and asking people will help. Still, I might get lucky."
Braddon smiles fondly then starts. "I know some people I could ask. I'll check in on those girls of Shorafa's. They probably know nothing, but better odds than Leeward strangers."
"We've some hours before dinner. Does the house dine together? Ought we all plan to return then? Or are we on our own? And if so; Samaritha, may I ask your company?"
Samaritha looks startled at the invitation. She glances at Malkith; then her face settles into decision. "Yes, all right," she replies a bit stiffly.
The dwarf responds to the whole of Gristav's question, rather than just the last part. "Saul and I generally buy up discounted stock from closing street vendors just before sunset. Anyone's welcome to join us, as long as it lasts, but," his eyes dart to Samaritha, "if you're looking for something more civilized, you'll have to eat before sunset or cross the river to Free-Coin. You can't buy a meal anywhere else in Riddleport after dark."
A weight lifts from Gristav at Samaritha's answer, and he smiles broadly, before reading her stiffness. Listening dutifully to Larur, Gristav nods at what he knew. "Let the lady decide how civilized, it is more her civilization than mine.", he said, trying to lure a smile from Samaritha. "But if I am explained but yet unforgiven, perhaps amends in penance might be found. And if it's the leavings of the street that is the usual fare in this house, perhaps that penance can be done in dinner at one table." He had propped aside the slate again, and now approached Samaritha.
"What say you? Would you show me your town, and sources we'd need, while we gather the makings, of dinner for all? Or, closer perhaps to what you thought you agreed, sit across a smaller table, with me alone?"
"It's not my town," she protests, "not yet anyway. I've been here less than two months. But if you're going to need someone to go and fetch dinner anyway," she turns to Larur, "I'd be pleased to do it for you. With Gristav, I mean."
Saul diverts his attention from the logistical discussions with Thuvalia for a moment. "I expect Tendal will be back for dinner. That's, uh, the three of us; plus Tendal and the ladies is six; the four of you, ten; and Master Hargreaves, if he's to grace us with his presence this evening. So, dinner enough for eleven? Unless any of you have other plans," he suggests.
"Now, don't deny the two gentlemen their bachelor constitutional, indulging their inner children and curmudgeons both, street treats with pinched pennies, Larur for the thrift, Saul for the showman's savor of the silver-shaving... Do I guess it rightly, Larur?", Gristav grinned, beaming with affection for the dwarf.
"Let them gather near and ready fabricated fripperies, while we pursue staples and substance, a proper planned repast. If this will be held to be a house, let's work toward a household. I'll pledge to ice enough to keep whatever, so long as my tongue be unstilled." Gris pointed and smiled at Larur's ready retort, at which point the dwarf instead just guffawed.
"Laugh. And make list, perhaps? On something less burden than the slate, pray, while I fetch my staff and my very best shopping basket..."
Gristav returns shortly, with his staff, from the kitchen, and nearly-emptied saddlebags, from his room. From one he produces another pot of blueberry preserves, asking of Larur, "To your care, please. Held against a time of your choosing?"
That settled, Gris smiled at Samaritha. "Months lead days, but might we walk beside? I'd offer my arm, but..." He held up the staff and bags in opposite hands, to finish the thought.
Malkith listens in silence, waiting for the realization of his summons. He quickly grows bored with Gristav's wordy exposes, reminding him much of the dandy Tendal who arrived with the rest of them just two nights past. His thoughts begin to ponder other things when Gristav asks for Samaritha's company. Too late does Malkith realize what is being said when Samaritha accepts the invitation.
While Gristav is collecting his things, Samaritha turns to Malkith. "If you'd like to ask around Lubbertown about Mistress Vishki tomorrow, I'd be happy to go with you," she offers. "I mean, if you have the time."
When her shopping partner returns, staff and saddlebags in hand, she sighs resolutely. Bidding Malkith and Braddon farewell a little grimly, she accompanies Gris out the door wordlessly. As soon as they are down the stairs, she glances over her shoulder to make sure no one is around to overhear and then hisses, "What were you thinking?!"
"You mean to ask for your company?", Gristav asks softly. "Or at the hill? Or the abortive pastorage? Or sending Malkith for you when you refused to acknowledge me?" Gristav paused a beat. "One of those? I could explain them all, in sequence, but I'd hear less of your voice..." He smiled in impish triumph.
"And thank you. For allowing... this.", he said, gesturing at the space between them.
"You know what I-- What do you mean I refused to--? Oh, never mind," she replies, flustered, as they pass out of the courtyard and into the street. "I mean at the Cypherlodge, of course. Did you just set out to humiliate me?"
Braddon stands beside Malkith and watches as Samaritha and Gristav depart into the streets.
"So, if you and Sam are asking about Mistress Vishki tomorrow, do you want me about? Or do you want some time alone with her too?" Braddon smiles somewhat grimly.
Upon seeing Malkith's reaction, Braddon at least has the decency to appear recalcitrant.
"Sorry. You did well asking about the governess today. If you think you've got it, I'm happy to search Leeward and follow some other leads."
"Drink?" he asks by way of apology.
"Never. Only if scrubbing with sand is making dirty. I wanted her to hate me, enough to defy and deny me. And for her to pity you, enough to give you more of her time. I laid out gourds for her to break: No women, No half-elves, No applicants, hoping she'd spite me by denying them. If you've been there months... I didn't know months, but when I saw you shrink at her refusal, like an ember to grey, when I'd seen you so flame-bright... And I imagined it times a score, a hundred, a forever..." He sighed, and steeled. "I could not let it be. So I became your hateful disclaimer, and her insulter, so that maybe, to revenge upon me, or on others, who had ever said similar to her, she would give you the chance. A chance is all you would need. If they were worthy of you."
"And I accented my voice, but in your shock or worry, you might not have heard it. You know, I have no great accent, and am conspicuously capable of erudite enunciation. The accent was what sign I could make, that it was all ruse, the insult and vitriol. The accent, was for your ears. But the vitriol... was not for you. Nor her. An old scar, is all, that went with that masque."
"I half imagined myself giving the ferry a miss, and crossing as a toad.", he added wryly, then shrugged.
"I turned a card, and took a risk. And when you did not answer, I did not feel it undeserved. Nor even unjust, as you saw it. But there was only so much explaining, can be whispered at a door. So again, thank you, for this."
"I would do it again.", he decided aloud.
"You think I want pity?" she asks in disbelief. "It's been hard enough being constrained to accept charity. You think I want to be let in the Cypherlodge because they feel sorry for me? You think I could ever suffer letting them think I'd apprenticed myself to some," she struggles for words to describe his masquerade, "some drunken boor of a master? And worse: that having entered into such an apprenticeship, I'd break my word and try to escape my indenture into their protection? What sort of judgment does that speak of for me? What kind of responsibility and ... and perseverance?"
The proprietor locks his door but continues to give the two halflings exclusive service until he has finished taking Phil's measurements. Ethel sends Phillip away to the front window to watch the foot traffic on the street outside as she confers with the clothier about the details. "Vostede dixo que confiaba en min," she reminds him with a wink as she shoos him away.
After a while, she sidles up beside him again, taking his arm. "The tailor's ready to settle up," she murmurs with a smile, "and you'll see what I've chosen when you come back for your fitting. What's so special about Sunday night, and where are we going from here?" she asks with a smile. "I hope I get to change out of my working clothes at some point." **
Phil smirks as Ethel takes charge and yields the floor. He explains about Sunday being the next day at the Goblin, and he would enjoy taking her. He also ventures about his earlier commitment to Ranef, and offers Ethel the choice of coming with or meeting after.
"Of course I have the time," Malkith responds to Samaritha, "It will give us the chance to kill two birds with one stone."
The Varisian watches passively as Samaritha and Gristav leave. He shakes his head in wonder as he swing back towards the bar. "Thank you," he says to Braddon, "But I think it would be better to keep our net cast wide until we discover just wear Scarlet it hiding out. If you want to return to the Publican House in the morning, Samaritha and I can cover Lubbertown. We could meet up in the Leeward for our midday meal. Maybe bring the elf with you for an extra pair of eyes and ears?
"Some hot tea would be welcomed." Malkith waits patiently for Braddon to serve the beverage before continuing, "And thank you; about the governess, I mean. I suppose one tends to develop a certain subtle tact when they earn a living communing with the Fates for complete strangers."
"You think I want pity?" she asks in disbelief. "It's been hard enough being constrained to accept charity. You think I want to be let in the Cypherlodge because they feel sorry for me? You think I could ever suffer letting them think I'd apprenticed myself to some," she struggles for words to describe his masquerade, "some drunken boor of a master? And worse: that having entered into such an apprenticeship, I'd break my word and try to escape my indenture into their protection? What sort of judgment does that speak of for me? What kind of responsibility and ... and perseverance?"
"Seven rhetorical questions, all answered 'no', or 'none'. But rhetorically. Unless you really care what I think, which is this: They are not worthy of you, or needed by you. If you hadn't demonstrated perserverance in your month of matins-and-midday mendacity after matriculation, they are not paying attention, and you were not going to ever demonstrate it. Do you think that your daily presence has been tallied on some board inside their tower? And that like some fairy's story, when you've peeled that thousandth apple, made the longest ribbon of rind, you'll be shown the secret star? Because I know the trick of that tale; it's that fairies like applerind, and that patient, gentle, kind folk like yourself will peel it for them. But the star is found in a single cut, not a patient peeling, and you don't need the fairy's blessing, or the cypher college's, or mine, to find it. You only have to cut through the red ribbons, and look inside yourself."
"You're better than them. The intelligence in your eyes is brighter than the lights of all their locked libraries. If they refuse your kind offer of attendance, it is their loss. No great secret waits within their walls, to grant your wings and the wind beneath. Your greatness is behind your own eyes, and they'd have seen it at the first, if they were only looking. But they were not."
"The first time I ever climbed their hill, I saw a worthy apprentice rebuffed, diminished, drained, for what, the twentieth time? And yes, I leaped to soon, to her support, and that in my own too-clever, too-foolish way. But it wasn't your first rebuff I ruined, nor your second or third. Yes, I had no right to do it. Unless caring, of itself, gave me some right. I can accept", he summed sadly, "...if it does not."
"So, in other words," Samaritha sighs wearily, "you don't approve of my goals, and while you think I'm more than qualified for membership, you decided to help me by making them feel sorry for me. I mean, if you think it's all right for my entire professional career to be based on lies and deception, why not dress like a miscreant and physically assault Mistress Bromathan so that I could leap into action and drive you away with a well-cast spell?" she concludes sardonically. "Then I'm the hero rather than the charity case."
The Varisian watches passively as Samaritha and Gristav leave. He shakes his head in wonder as he swing back towards the bar. "Thank you," he says to Braddon, "But I think it would be better to keep our net cast wide until we discover just wear Scarlet it hiding out. If you want to return to the Publican House in the morning, Samaritha and I can cover Lubbertown. We could meet up in the Leeward for our midday meal. Maybe bring the elf with you for an extra pair of eyes and ears?
Braddon busies himself brewing some hot tea for Malkith, remembering to use finely chopped tea leaves in case a reading is required.
"Excellent. I'll start tomorrow with the Publican House, then head to Leeward and meet you for lunch. Actually, the best time to find Lil in Leeward would be the evening, when she's heading out to a client. I wonder if there's still time today?"
"So, in other words," Samaritha sighs wearily, "you don't approve of my goals, and while you think I'm more than qualified for membership, you decided to help me by making them feel sorry for me. I mean, if you think it's all right for my entire professional career to be based on lies and deception, why not dress like a miscreant and physically assault Mistress Bromathan so that I could leap into action and drive you away with a well-cast spell?" she concludes sardonically. "Then I'm the hero rather than the charity case."
"I suppose I deserve the hyperbole.", Gristav accepted. "Your ruined career is as hyperbolic a proposition as my thuggery, though. At least by experimental data to date. And I cannot speak to qualification, only worth. I haven't seen spark, mote, rime, shimmer, or gleam, only intelligent eyes and informed questions. I'll stipulate to my lack of examples from which to draw comparison, but you don't appear to practice the studies, so much as study the practices. What is it, then, that the Cypherlodge wants? Have they, collectively or singly, given any clue?"
"It's not that they want anything; they just don't have an opening for an apprentice," she responds. "That's what Mistress Bromathan said. And I know," she admits, "that they limit their membership artificially to appear more exclusive. To some of them, it means a lot to be able to say they're a Cyphermage, just for the prestige. I really don't care about that; I'm not that much of a snob," she tries to assure Gristav. "But ... the wealth of knowledge they keep in their library! There's nothing to rival it north of Korvosa, and even the Academae doesn't possess such an extensive collection on the Thassilonian empire. To be allowed to study that, and hopefully one day to add to the sum of knowledge held there ... that's what I aspire to. No matter how accomplished Saul Vankaskerkin's house arcanist might be ... it just can't compare to being the least unsung scholar in the Cypherlodge."
"Actually, the best time to find Lil in Leeward would be the evening, when she's heading out to a client. I wonder if there's still time today?"
"That might not be a bad idea," Malkith says after testing Braddon's tea. Satisfied, he takes a longer sip before continuing, "I would offer to join you, but I think I am going to retire to my room until Samaritha and Gristav return with dinner. There are several things I'd like to reflect on before the morning."
"Unsung... The least unsung?" Gristav grinned slowly, and sang, [b]"Samaritha, green and flame, Samaritha, is her name." He smiled, and said, "Hah! Again, I thwart your plans! Never now, can you be least unsung...", he joked. "Unless you meant the least of the unsung. You couldn't be that, either, if you'd make any effort at all. And you would."
"I don't disfavor your intent. While I don't favor the become-their-only-source-and-wring-their-purse model that seems to pervade this town, if one had to follow it, knowledge is perhaps the most noble niche. It's lamentable that, in their artificially enhancing their exclusivity, in service to those of their members without other distinction, they've made 'no room for apprentice' so likely a lie that you must doubt it, and ask again, different day, different face, same answer, so it starts to stripe, and I see you bend under it. One must assume, such hapless hat-in-hand hopefuls are not too much of a burden on the grand Cyphermagi.", he said bitterly. "If they are able to bind the bits of a spell, they are able to plan for or against that. That they don't, is a choice. And telling."
"I'll admit there's probably some who get a bit of a thrill from the number of applicants turned away," she shrugs. "Honestly, after the length of time I've struggled to gain an audience, I'd probably feel affronted too if they just started accepting any likely candidate to come to their door. Isn't it natural to feel cheated when something comes easily to someone else that you've had to work hard for? I'm undoubtedly happier believing that the process is arbitrary -- that one has merely to be in the right place at the right time or to have the right connections -- than feeling like I've been judged on my talents and abilities and found wanting." Their path has led them to Leeward Common, where fresh goods from outlying farms are sold from open-air stands in front of stores offering more durable dry goods. "What's on Mr. Felden's list?" she asks.
"Of your wants? Or your talents and abilities? He did credit you with rendering me silent." Gristav smiled warmly at her while he slung the bags over one shoulder, and dipped a hand within with much-practiced ease. Squinting and brow-whipping at the paper he produced, he played, "I don't read Dwarvish." He passed her the note while he looked about for the first or closest item, remarking, "We'll just be sure to bring a hammer, and a dwarf can make whatever we've forgot..."
Larur's list, predictably now that Gristav stops to think about it, is practical and unimaginative, avoiding the fresh foods that would be exotic and hard to come by in an underground city. Gris can stick to the list for a barebones dinner of readily-stored staples or go off-script to create a somewhat more interesting meal....
----------------
"Actually, the best time to find Lil in Leeward would be the evening, when she's heading out to a client. I wonder if there's still time today?"
"Couldn't help overhearing," Daynadrian joins the pair at the bar. "You want me to go with you to the neighborhood where Rose thinks Lil's flat is, or are you planning on checking in with your own contacts?"
Unless she gets the clear impression that Phil would like her to accompany him, Ethel seems less than enthusiastic about the prospect of drinking hard liquor with large, sweaty strangers. "Walk me home?" she asks. "Then you'll know where to pick me up when you're done with your gladiator friends."
"Actually, the best time to find Lil in Leeward would be the evening, when she's heading out to a client. I wonder if there's still time today?""Couldn't help overhearing," Daynadrian joins the pair at the bar. "You want me to go with you to the neighborhood where Rose thinks Lil's flat is, or are you planning on checking in with your own contacts?"
Braddon raises a cup of tea to the archer.
"Let's head round there now. What could possibly go wrong?"He quaffs most of the tea, leaving the last of the leaves and deposits it in front of Malkith.
He quaffs the last of his ale, grabs his weapons and backpack and heads out with Daynadrian into the late afternoon.
Larur's list, predictably now that Gristav stops to think about it, is practical and unimaginative, avoiding the fresh foods that would be exotic and hard to come by in an underground city. Gris can stick to the list for a barebones dinner of readily-stored staples or go off-script to create a somewhat more interesting meal....
"Bread for toast. Bread for jams. Bread for heels to play at clams...", Gristav goofed, opening and closing one hand as if clapping a castanet. He grinned at Samaritha. "Bread. Such imagination. Well, we have some advantages here. None of these vendors want to carry their wares home and back again tomorrow. And meats and such that have had the day, can have our magicked ice for the night, and the next. I say we get him what he's listed, and what we'd want, beside. A dozen for dinner? Or about that? I suppose our real limit will be the bags themselves. What say you? What spicing or icing or desertish vice-ing calls to you? Or what might you remember any of the others favoring? The table is the heart of the home."
"What spicing or icing or desertish vice-ing calls to you? Or what might you remember any of the others favoring?"
She smiles. "Braddon likes ale. Mr. Deverin likes wine. Mr. Felden likes ... blueberries?" She begins to browse the fruits and vegetables on offer. "I know what I like to eat, but I don't know how to cook it. Do you? Oh, look: strawberries! They're almost done for the season."
Between the pair of them, they are able to bargain not only for bread and several types of berries but for mushrooms, peas, tomatoes, some fresh herbs, and a saddle of lamb that Samaritha is hopeful can be put together into some kind of stew. She adds a few small goat cheeses wrapped in cloth and a pot of cream to accompany the berries.
"He likes to be dutiful. So meats, 'about to go off', jams, 'put by late, but I got a good price', and similar circumstantial shadings. He's no fool, he hears the ruse, but he'll accept no luxury." Gristav clouded a moment, but recovered in time for her next question, and exclamation.
"They'll be putting them up in Mallowford in a week.", he said as she fluttered over the strawberries. "I can usually get a straight trade, the first pots, for the wax for the second. I suppose that's all over... You asked, can I cook. Trail life requires one can do ones sums... I can cook, some, and I can magick, some, and I can outright cheat some, if it comes to that. Starting with good ingredients, and good care, the magick should be more the chopping and stirring, and less the taste-changing and the un-burning."
"You're not so much the practical magician, I've noticed. And yet, not otherwise overly domestic. I don't mean these as negative observations. As the song goes, 'When I was a child, my summers were spent by the sea...' But the observations stand. So then, were others charged with the maintenance of your household, as well?"
Phil smiles and extends the crook of his arm to his paramour so as to escort her properly. "But of course milady" making no attempt to convince her to join him. "Hopefully I shall survive the experience without further blood and bruise"
Braddon and Daynadrian leave the Gold Goblin and head northward to the edge of the neighborhood where Dayn's informant believes Lil's sanctum to be situated. "There's about six blocks between here and the bend in the river," Daynadrian informs the half-elf. "It's likely to be a room rented out by a business owner rather than a public residence, probably somewhere with a separate entrance for her and her clients' privacy."
"You're not so much the practical magician, I've noticed. And yet, not otherwise overly domestic. I don't mean these as negative observations. As the song goes, 'When I was a child, my summers were spent by the sea...' But the observations stand. So then, were others charged with the maintenance of your household, as well?"
"I grew up in a caravan," she shrugs. "People tend to do what they're good at. If Izeba Nicinniana is a good cook, what is the point in someone not naturally gifted or interested in it learning to cook? Why waste good food on someone else's amateur attempts at cooking, when everyone would rather eat Izeba Nicinniana's meals? We find our interests and specialize in them. If we need another cook or carpenter or goat-breeder and no one in the caravan wants the job, it is as easy to take on someone from another caravan wishing to travel unfamiliar roads as to force someone uninterested in the profession to learn it."
"Being half elven, I was offered two paths as a child they thought I might excel at: scouting and wizardry. I had no talent as a tracker and hunter, so I was apprenticed to the wizard and studied very little other than the arcane -- what he could teach me, anyway, which was enough for a traveling wizard: how to mend broken gear, maintain a light that can't be blown out by the wind, start a fire even in the rain, some minor defense of the caravan in times of danger. But then," she blushes a little, "I didn't keep up my end of the bargain. I wasn't satisfied to spend my life being a practical magician for the benefit of the caravan. I was never told what was expected of me in exchange for my training, but I know they assumed I would stay and take over the caravan's wizardry." She looks a little ashamed of herself.
"Anyway, since I've been in Riddleport, I've mostly studied spells I could protect myself with, if I needed to. A woman living along, among people I don't really trust...," she shrugs. "You missed Sunday night, when I flavored Braddon's wine as ale -- and cleaned up Malkith when your dance partner threw wine in his face for having the effrontery not to fall into bed with her when she offered herself as a bribe," she points out sourly.
Ethel leads Phil northeast into the cul-de-sac where Leeward District laps against the surrounding cliffs. The neighborhood is respectable but not as well maintained and freshly painted as the area around the Common. She pauses at the front door of an aging brownstone boarding house, the outer walls up to the second-story windows covered with a sweet-smelling flowering ivy. "We live on the top floor -- the garret, really," she points to the dormer windows set into the roof. "You could come up, but I imagine the girls are there, probably getting ready to go out. Maybe Win, too. Unless you really feel like making awkward small talk, you could go on and meet your friends. Maddy and Almah should be gone by the time you come back. It's all the way at the top of the stairs; you can't miss it."
"No bargain broken, if unmade, unchosen. I too abandoned a mentor, for designs and methods darker than my sense of duty demanded. Take heart, you may yet serve your Caravari well, for a great and learned wizardress, with such marks as you bear, can add much to their prestige, even their safety, simply by her fame."
"I wonder, is it all peredhel, who find two paths laid out? I'm no huntsman, but the bow has always come easy. And no wizard, but spells serve well. You've my repertoire; are you comfortable sharing yours? I ask for planning purposes, for caravan night, or even tonight's meal-making."
"And for Sunday, I wouldn't say I'd missed it, but knowing might have had actions against her, rather than cautions, be my response to her posturing protests." Gristav shrugged in a very Caravari way. "The past that did not happen; hidden better than the future."
"I suppose we face fewer prejudices than those with orc blood," Samaritha smiles, "whose lot in life is generally expected to involve smashing things." She hesitates as he inquires after her spells. "I've... I've never let anyone look through my spellbook before. But I suppose ... you've already shown me yours. Maybe after dinner?" she finishes uncertainly.
Braddon stops and points at an L shaped building directly west from the House of the Silken Veil and one block from the river.
"What? Like that one? Wait here in case there's trouble."
Braddon makes his way to the side entrance and raps at the door. When it's answered he begins.
"Hi. I'm a... client of Miss Lil. Sorry if I'm early. Is she here? You're not? How embarassing. I was sure this was where she said. Maybe it was next door. Do you happen to know...? Umm, thank you. Thank you very much. Sorry."
Braddon returns to Daynadrian with a grin. "How was that? Shall we continue?"
"I intended only to have a description, a list, perhaps incomplete. A magi's magister is more than just the spells laid out as if upon most-completed scrolls; there's the failures beside the successes, the scribbled incautious (and laughable, when viewed from the future) investigations of incants, or gesture, or "...rose thorns can not be substituted..." scribbled in a margin." He smiled collegially at her, gesturing at the described scribble, and caught himself again, drawn falling into her intelligent eyes.
"That I needed shelter for my own, and welcomed your eyes on all my faults and frays and... thorns, is my own comfort with my errors, my... promiscuity, if you will. And incurs to you no expectation of any similar." He smiled, and it shaded to a smirk and back, his eyes dancing over hers. "Not that it'd not be welcome...", he flirted gently, "but as a gift, a sharing, a celebration, not as a debt or duty. And hopefully never, just to find shelter for them."
"Keep all the secrets you'd keep. Share all you'd share. I'll try to be worthy of either, and delight in whatever choice you make.", He grinned, and added roguishly, "And it surely beats climbing the hill the to the Cypherlodge."
At the mention of the Cypherlodge, a flash of unhappiness sobers her face again. "I don't think I've anything that would be of use to Thuvalia's performance. They're all very practical spells: setting an alarm to ward a wagon from intruders or summoning a cloud of fog to hinder bandits with crossbows. Nothing showy. You should probably consult Mr. Deverin; he had a private tutor from Absolom."
"I'm sorry.", Gristav says softly at her unhappiness. "Fog might make a grand entrance, or set a haunted mood. I've an illusion for similar effects, but you know that. And... it's not her performance. It's all of us. Even a tray of drinks is part of the evening, and who would go where none such were served? Perhaps with the versatility of the illusion, or with some more thought... That alarm might be directly useful, for the counting room, perhaps."
"I am sorry. Here, you speak to Deverin, and when I'm asked about whatever magics we use, it'll be, 'Oh, Samaritha Beldusc is the magess-in-charge, coordinating the effects...', and we'll start to fluff your fame." He smiled, hoping to lift her spirit.
Braddon and Daynadrian rather methodically make their way down the block, the elf making discreet inquiries of passersby and shopkeeps on the main street while Braddon circles the buildings looking for back and side entrances at which to try his luck. He has a great many doors slammed in his face, and Daynadrian has little success engaging the townsfolk who seem leery of a strange elf asking questions.
By the time the businesses begin to close their doors just before sunset, the two have accomplished little more than locating every building with a separate rear or side entrance between the Calistrian temple and the warehouses and boarded-up shacks of the River District. Most of these Braddon has been turned away from, but at a few doors, his knock brought no answer. One in particular he thinks a likely candidate: A second-story entrance at the top of a wooden staircase in a narrow alley between two buildings, it would provide both privacy and quick access from streets on either side. The ground floor of the building houses a cobbler, a milliner, and the small office of a clerk and scribe.
"I am sorry. Here, you speak to Deverin, and when I'm asked about whatever magics we use, it'll be, 'Oh, Samaritha Beldusc is the magess-in-charge, coordinating the effects...', and we'll start to fluff your fame."
"As a stage magician?" she asks with a wan smile. "I doubt that would impress a brotherhood of scholars. I'll ask Mr. Deverin if he has any spells that might enhance the performance." Their path has led them back to the Gold Goblin, but although the sun has not yet sunk beneath the rim of the western ridge, the double doors at the top of the front stairs are closed. Samaritha looks at Gristav, burdened with the purchases in his saddlebags. "I suppose we ought to go around back to the kitchen door?"
Gristav chuckled at her doubtful protestation of stage magic's persuasion, but nodded at her agreement to speak to Tendal. "Good, do that. Deverin will surely welcome your interest over mine, and you are the most informed as to our resources. We might plan all at once, if that suits the magess-in-charge. She should not too soon dismiss the impression three magi's arts might make. 'Stage magic', indeed. 'All the world', Gristav quoted, 'Is a stage'. There's a bit of nonsense, come to wide respect. Let the future speak of the 'Beldusc Method', once we... know what that is.", Gris smiled.
At the Goblin:
"I've my keys, but better to use the door closest the kitchen, I think. Where we first met, or our voices did.", he remembers aloud. Shrugging the saddlebags to slide down one arm to the hand, as they passed from broader streets to narrower ways, his other hand circled the ashen staff lightly, just south of it's balance, without thinking, from long habit. "I'll go first, if you don't mind? The promenades are more fetching, with you before them, but the alleys... clash with your hair.", he flattered and wimsy-ed.
After taking his leave from Ethel, Phil wends his way southward toward his appointment with Ranef. Most of Riddleport is already in shadow as the rays of the late afternoon sun overshoot the valley to paint the upper edge of the eastern ridge. Several shops are already closed and shuttered, while food vendors and and bakers are offering the last of their days' wares at steep discounts from baskets alongside the street; unfortunately for him, cheap liquor isn't a perishable.
As he approaches the gladiators' training house across from the arena, beyond it he sees the chimneys of the Gas Forges belching dark smoke into the sky. The smoke drifts into a low cloud of haze over the ramshackle streets of Rotgut District. Several of the nearest buildings sport boarded-up windows, but unlike in River District, squatters and vagrants seem to inhabit the abandoned structures openly; boards have been pried off and removed, and patched clothing and bits of sailcloth hang over doors and windows as makeshift curtains. Derelicts, mostly elderly men in tattered sailors' clothes, sit on doorsteps and eye the halfling with disinterest as he walks by. He spies a tall building on a corner with an alchemists' symbol on a weathered board and a few dusty pawn shops before he sees a shopfront where several men clutching bottles sit on overturned crates out front. They glare at Phil as he passes them to get to the door.
Inside, the storefront is dim, due to some combination of the lateness of the day, the smoke in the air, and the grime on the filthy window panes. Crates, both empty and full, are stacked so deeply against the interior walls that there is little floor space to stand in, but Phil is able to purchase two bottles of hard liquor from a grizzled man with a wooden leg who grins at him to reveal rotten and missing teeth.