Braddon glances at the womans hands for weapons then pushes his way past her into the room.
"She's probably his wife and doesn't have a clue he's intending to run off with a whore," Braddon mutters. He moves quickly up to the first corner, pulling a dagger, then pauses a second before jumping round it. Keeping low and crouched, leading with the dagger, Braddon begins searching for anything scribe shaped.
"Given how quickly she wants us to leave, I'd say he's hiding here and letting her take the risks."
"Who are you? Where is Herr Weatherby?"
"Nathanael?" she stammers. "What does...? He doesn't keep money here, I swear. It's all invested in ships and buildings and things. What was here he just... took... with him," she trails off, catching Braddon's mutter. "I am his wife. What's this all about?" she asks with a bit more sharpness.
The room upon which the door opens is a small sitting room, just large enough for two armchairs across a fireplace. A sewing basket lies disturbed next to one of them, apparently where the woman was sitting when interrupted. Through a door on one side of the fireplace is a tiny kitchen; on the other side is a dining room. A narrow staircase leads up.
Once the waitress departs Phillip settles leaning into his chair and rests a hand lazily upon Ethel's. Smoothing out his mustache with the other he watches the crowd with an appraising eye, while musing "So... what's good?"
"The clam chowder is their specialty," Ethel replies, "but they also serve salmon cooked in lemon butter that's very good." She glances at Phil at just the moment to catch him palming the vial of perfume. "Phil, what's that?" she asks inquisitively.
Phillip smiles, genuinely impressed and holds his hands up in mock arrested pose "Caught red handed... it is a gift." letting Ethel take the black silken container from him to open and view for herself.
"I am his wife. What's this all about?" she asks with a bit more sharpness.
The room upon which the door opens is a small sitting room, just large enough for two armchairs across a fireplace. A sewing basket lies disturbed next to one of them, apparently where the woman was sitting when interrupted. Through a door on one side of the fireplace is a tiny kitchen; on the other side is a dining room. A narrow staircase leads up.
"Nathanial lied about the investments and is running off with the whore, Scarlet Lil. His letter to her."
Braddon pushes the Infernal letter into her hand."We're going to stop him."
He heads carefully up the narrow staircase, alert for an ambush.
"Your husband is working with a very dangerous woman and, as a result, has found himself in the middle of what is likely to become an uncivilized dispute." Malkith looks after Braddon to emphasis his point. Staying with the woman, he turns back to her, "If you tell me where he has gone and what he's taken with him, I can try to prevent any unnecessary harm from befalling your husband."
Braddon tries hard not to snort at Malkith's comment as he ascends the stairs.
Braddon climbs cautiously up the narrow staircase and finds himself in an equally narrow corridor. A bedroom opens off either end. In the middle is a room with a bathtub and extra linens stored in shelves on the walls. Each room has a fireplace with a shared chimney; the fireplaces in the bedrooms are small, while the one in the bath room is larger, to fit a cauldron for heating water.
"Your husband is working with a very dangerous woman and, as a result, has found himself in the middle of what is likely to become an uncivilized dispute." Malkith looks after Braddon to emphasis his point. Staying with the woman, he turns back to her, "If you tell me where he has gone and what he's taken with him, I can try to prevent any unnecessary harm from befalling your husband."
Mistress Weatherby looks down at the letter Braddon thrust into her hand with incomprehension before answering Malkith. "He said ... he was going to Roderic's Cove on business. He packed and had an early supper; he was going to hire a horse out of Squire's Stable on his way out of town. Who is this woman?" she demands.
Phillip smiles, genuinely impressed and holds his hands up in mock arrested pose "Caught red handed... it is a gift." letting Ethel take the black silken container from him to open and view for herself.
Ethel unwraps the silk from the parcel curiously. "It's.... Is it ... perfume?" She carefully removes the stopper and inhales the scent of the essential oil, smiling at him over the vial.
"It is to perfume as whisky is to ale... it is attar. A distillation of the scent more pure and less complicated than the blends of essences that make up perfume." holding out his hand to take the bottle back for a moment. As he continues, he daubs his finger tip in the oil and touches it to the inside of Ethel's wrists and to her neck, just below her ear "A perfume is a symphony of competing voices that clamor for attention, before fading away without leaving their mark. An attar though, is a single voice... clear, honest and grows with intensity as time passes." restoppering the vial and bringing Ethel's wrists to his nose to drink in the scent.
Turning her hands back over, a courtly kiss is given to her knuckles "Truth to one's self gives clarity and strength... lest we be lost in a crowd" the words said with a degree of gravitas that shows they reflect back upon Phillip's own belief structure as it applies to the Wasp Queen. The corner of his mouth cracking into a smile he adds "Besides, I trust the essence is agreeable?"
She draws a wrist back and sniffs the fragrance on her own skin. "Like flowers in Mother's garden back home," she smiles. "I suppose I've lived in Riddleport long enough that I've grown used to the smell off the river. Is this your subtle way of telling me it's rubbed off on me?" she teases.
Phillip shows a brevity of pained expression at the taunt, a beat passing before answering "No milady... I had thought that since I usually come to you either covered in blood, sweat or silt... it would help to push my pungence from your senses."
Mistress Weatherby looks down at the letter Braddon thrust into her hand with incomprehension before answering Malkith. "He said ... he was going to Roderic's Cove on business. He packed and had an early supper; he was going to hire a horse out of Squire's Stable on his way out of town. Who is this woman?" she demands.
Braddon draws his bastard sword and pokes it up the large bathroom chimney before he peers carefully after it. He follows his sword out of the bathroom and into the bedrooms, under each bed and checks out the other chimneys of the upstairs areas. Once he's satisfied he's checked all the spaces large enough to fit a scribe, he heads back down towards the dining room and kitchen. His stomach growls at the mention of an early supper.
Braddon finds no sign of Weatherby upstairs, although if he takes the time to glance in the drawers and wardrobe, it appears that one of the bedrooms has been recently emptied, much as Lil's flat appeared. What remains in this case is men's clothing, and it is neatly folded and stacked, in contrast to the jumble left in Lil's drawers. The coverlet on the bed is tucked in so smoothly and tightly, Braddon suspects he might be able to bounce a silver piece off of it. The other room is less aggressively orderly, although still neat, and more feminine in appearance.
When he returns downstairs, the woman turns toward him a little reproachfully. "I told you he left. Now who is this woman you say he's with? And what does this letter say? Is it in Elven?"
"Lil Scarlet is the best known whore in Riddleport. She keeps a secret apartment above your husband's work, and he's not charging her silver any more for it, if you take my meaning. They're involved with the Sczarni and a heist that's lead to several deaths. The letter tells her to run away with him. We want to catch up with him before one of the crime lords kills him. He won't be back, but if you want we can bring him back. When did he leave, what did he take?"
Braddon's words seem to knock the breath out of Mistress Weatherby. She sits down heavily on the nearest chair and stares blankly for a moment as she gathers herself. "It was ... less than half an hour ago. What he took, I don't know; he did his own packing. He wore his old armor, for safety on the road, and took his old crossbow. I know he took all the money in the house. He said he hadn't had time to withdraw anything from his investments on such short notice and that he'd replenish our household cash when he returned, that I could get by until then on our credit. He was going to pick up a horse from the stable on his way out of town."
Phillip shows a brevity of pained expression at the taunt, a beat passing before answering "No milady... I had thought that since I usually come to you either covered in blood, sweat or silt... it would help to push my pungence from your senses."
She laughs but then squeezes his hand with sincerity. "Thank you, Phil." She tucks the vial away, bringing her wrist up to her face again to enjoy the scent after she has secured it. "Can I ... can I ask you a question?" she asks a little nervously. "About ... Calistria?" she lowers her voice as she speaks the goddess's name as if expecting that merely mentioning her might draw attention. "Growing up, they always told us to work hard and be unselfish and put the needs of the community before our own because that's what Erastil wanted. Basically, you'd do what you didn't want to do as a show of reverence. But if her rule is to do what you want to do anyway... how does she know -- how does anyone know if you're doing it for her or for yourself?"
Having made his farewells to Jaelle, Gristav decamps to Larur's office. The dwarf is able to report that he secured enough planks of wood to make a dance floor for Sunday night, but he hasn't seen any of the men who went to stake out Lil's apartment since they left the Goblin the previous evening. Gris informs him of the discoveries the party made -- at least those of which he is aware. Following that, he retreats to his room to study his spellbook.
Phillip's heart resurgent by the show of thanks he listens with the attentiveness of a teacher listening to his favored pupil. When the question is posed he smiles before answering with twinkling eye "A simple question, but bathed in a doubt whose source is far more interesting. The simple answer is that it does not matter what anyone thinks except for the only person that has importance... the self. You will know here..." tapping his chest above his heart "...and that is all that matters."
"Your elders told you as they did to bring honor to Erastil, slavish to his teachings and without the ability to think or act for yourself. Calistria is not so shallow, and far more generous. She is to the mortal world as I am to you Ethel Braum... the Wasp Queen watches with interest - but begs nothing of you. There are no rules, no edicts, no laws to restrain... there is just a primal desire... fulfil your passion - act true to the self, forge your own path and walk it with confidence and pride. Do that, feel that within your heart, and Calistria will smile."
Malkith relieves the woman of the letter, taking care to refold it. "Infernal" he corrects her as he stores the paper safely on his person.
He thinks to open his mouth as Braddon begins to take some liberties with the truth, but holds his tongue. "This woman has seduced many people, including a Sczarni man who threw his life away for her. We suspect Herr Weatherby to be similarly enthralled. If there's anything you can tell us about your husband's business in Rodric's Cove, or where we might be able to get that information, now would be the time to tell us."
"He said it had to do with a ship. He invests in different shipments and cargo routes; I don't know which one. I asked why the ship couldn't just sail on to Riddleport so he could deal with it here, and he said there was a problem with the cargo and I don't understand business so it would be a waste of time for him to try to explain it to me." She looks up from the chair, a spark of anger burning in her eyes now that the shock has passed. "You bring him back. If that whore wants him, she can have him, but I'll be damned if she can have my money. Odds are she won't want him without it."
He turns his head to let his gaze fall to Braddon as the hint of a grin tugs at one corner of his mouth. He gives the half-elf an affirmative nod, knowing this is the sort of work his companion thrived on.
"If it was less than half an hour ago, he can't have got far. Maybe we can beat him to the edge of town while he goes to the stables. Let's go." Braddon strides towards the door then turns towards Mrs Weatherby. "Don't worry Ma'am, we'll bring him back as soon as possible. What was he wearing? Does he have access to any magic? More importantly, can he ride?"
"Golden breastplate," she smirks. "Very dashing. You can't miss it. Almost makes you overlook the fact that he's losing his hair. Magic? Not as far as I know. As for riding, he can stay in the saddle, but he's no great horseman. He's a city boy through and through."
Braddon nods and heads off through the door.
When Malkith emerges he mutters, "Golden breastplate? Riding at night? From Riddleport? Alone? We better hurry before someone kills him."
He rushes off to gather Daynadrian and Samaritha.
"Your elders told you as they did to bring honor to Erastil, slavish to his teachings and without the ability to think or act for yourself. Calistria is not so shallow, and far more generous. She is to the mortal world as I am to you Ethel Braum... the Wasp Queen watches with interest - but begs nothing of you. There are no rules, no edicts, no laws to restrain... there is just a primal desire... fulfil your passion - act true to the self, forge your own path and walk it with confidence and pride. Do that, feel that within your heart, and Calistria will smile."
Ethel responds with a bemused smile. "The gods I know either tell their worshippers what to do or, like Desna, their followers pray to them so she'll do something for them. Like parents, either stern or indulgent. I've never heard of a god who just watches. The Calistrians at the temple," she goes on a little self-consciously, "I thought they ... did what they do because Calistria commanded it. I didn't know they had a choice."
Braddon scours the corridors of the boarding house until he finds Daynadrian and fills him in on the interview with Mistress Weatherby. It doesn't take long, but every passing moment may be lengthening the scribe's lead. Elf in tow, he rejoins Malkith and Samaritha on the common in front of the building.
"That stable I hired the carriage from isn't far from here," Daynadrian informs them. "As far as I know, it and Lubbertown are the only place to hire a horse in Riddleport. And our scribe doesn't seem like he'd blend in too well up in Lubbertown."
"Squires Stables, she said. Let's go."
Braddon begins to jog towards the stables and the nearby town exit.
Phillip scoffs before answering "Some there I'm sure want to be there... but I'd hardly think that many think that sort of debasement is core to their self. Calistria is not the saint of whores and pimps."
Having made his farewells to Jaelle, Gristav decamps to Larur's office. The dwarf is able to report that he secured enough planks of wood to make a dance floor for Sunday night, but he hasn't seen any of the men who went to stake out Lil's apartment since they left the Goblin the previous evening. Gris informs him of the discoveries the party made -- at least those of which he is aware. Following that, he retreats to his room to study his spellbook.
Studies done, Gris checks again with Larur. "No news at least means whatever they've found is of interest. Hopefully the governess was found, and found well. But I don't like the failing light and their failure to appear. And Sam's not back from her hopeful hill? And Thuvalia's not appeared, just beside the food? I'll be riding Hellbent, I think, partly to search for our prodigal sisters, and partly to filch, from Miss Mescher's manse, the scent of the governess. Then, to put the gnome and his hound on that trail... What odds, you think? Of my horseborne travel into that pit, and back again? Or better to wait for the morning, and confer over cakes?"
"Don't know if I'd be more relieved to have that Sczarni baggage out from under my roof or worried about what she might be planning next if she were out of my sight," Larur scowls. "Odds are, she's just hiding out somewhere to avoid being given anything useful to do. When the pie's ready to be cut, I'll wager she'll be on hand with a plate and fork." He offers Gristav a wry grin. "This morning, it was the half-elf lass worried about the rest of you and wanting to send out a rescue party. If you want to go up to the Cypherlodge and walk her home, go ahead. Someone's delivered a package of some kind here for her." He nods toward a parcel Gristav recognizes as the wrapped palm fronds from the Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar. "I'd not break into a house in Windward after dark, though, especially not one a girl's been abducted from and a woman's gone missing. I'd expect Mescher still has men watching it. Whenever the others turn up, the Varisian says he has some sort of understanding with the General; he ought to be able to get you in without your spending a night in lock-up."
"Calistria is not the saint of whores and pimps."
Some of Ethel's concerns seem to be laid to rest, but the return of the waitress to take the halflings' order interrupts the line of questioning. For a time, the considerations are culinary in nature; then the conversation turns into less philosophical channels. After a while, she wheedles, "Phil, what's the second dress for, the awful old schoolmarm one? Are you going to send me undercover somewhere very proper to eavesdrop on conversations for you?"
Daynadrian leads the way through the darkening streets toward the eastern ridge. Ahead, past the last of the buildings of the town, the road rises and then disappears through a narrow gap in the rock. They smell the stable before they see it, a long, low building just off the road. A stocky middle-aged man of Varisian descent is just exiting, a lantern swinging from one hand.
"Don't know if I'd be more relieved to have that Sczarni baggage out from under my roof or worried about what she might be planning next if she were out of my sight," Larur scowls. "Odds are, she's just hiding out somewhere to avoid being given anything useful to do. When the pie's ready to be cut, I'll wager she'll be on hand with a plate and fork." He offers Gristav a wry grin.
"With space left, large enough, she might grow into it. It's as you said, were she about, I'd have use for her, more noble than what she might be hiding from."
"This morning, it was the half-elf lass worried about the rest of you and wanting to send out a rescue party. If you want to go up to the Cypherlodge and walk her home, go ahead. Someone's delivered a package of some kind here for her." He nods toward a parcel Gristav recognizes as the wrapped palm fronds from the Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar. "I'd not break into a house in Windward after dark, though, especially not one a girl's been abducted from and a woman's gone missing. I'd expect Mescher still has men watching it. Whenever the others turn up, the Varisian says he has some sort of understanding with the General; he ought to be able to get you in without your spending a night in lock-up."
"Where to begin... I'd not spend the night in gaol...", he said, grinning at the sound of it, ridiculously for Larur's understanding. "I'd be knocking on, not breaking in. Ananda has returned to her home, and although the General may not be aware of me, I can truthfully say I am working with him. Drawing on Ananda's affection for the governess, some bit of cloth ought be readily begged. A pillowcase, if the elder slept hairloose? I regard the elder's fate as the largest outstanding question in the case, most telling of the quality of our quarry. I know some of us are on a blood-hunt, or one drop from it, but I'd favor a clearer understanding of our enemy's enmity or amity, ere assailing her animus." Realizing he'd waxed rather deeply fae, Gristav rephrased, "If the old broad ain't dead, Lil mebee don' need killin'."
"So I'd like to put the gnome and his princely hound on the scent. It's what they do, after all. Fancy a breakfast at the Three-billed Duck? I'm told the griddlecakes are fit for man and beast alike."
"The package... I can see you're keeping it in your office, given, current concerns. But the lady might have it better delivered to her room, or at least, not her dinner table. If she arrives for dinner. You say she spoke of searching for us? You don't think she's gone and done it? If she's found the others, I've no fear for her. If not, in all this time?"
Braddon calls out to the man as they approach the stables, not even slowing his stride. "Hi sir. Your second, third and fourth fastest horses. I assume a man with a golden breastplate just tried to hire your fastest. Did you give him a sprinter, one with endurance, or an old nag? What did he say?"
After a while, she wheedles, "Phil, what's the second dress for, the awful old schoolmarm one? Are you going to send me undercover somewhere very proper to eavesdrop on conversations for you?"
Phillip orders the salmon, preferring to have something that requires a knife than a bowl of soup. When Ethel raises the gabardine question with a half-smile "To be truthful, two reasons occurred though the more artful only afterwards. The first was to somewhat assuage your employer's horrible sense of proprietary. In that if she was also making an outfit akin to her liking that it would serve as a reason to ensure that workmanship on both gowns is to the best of her ability. If she had only resentment in her heart while working on the true dress then I feared her lack of passion would show in the product." the last couple of sentences spoken with halting confidence as though he now thought the reason more ludicrous having been spoken.
"The second was close to your words... a watcher of casual interest would never suspect a lady who wore the first to wear the second... or one that wore the second would also wear the first. If you did find yourself with any need to walk without leaving an imprint then it would serve." stroking Ethel's cheek and catching her gaze to show the next words were heartfelt "But as always, I would never send you anywhere milady... Any steps you take alongside me are to be your own, freely chosen."
"If the old broad ain't dead, Lil mebee don' need killin'."
Larur lets out a wheeze of a chuckle. "Most sensible thing I've ever heard you say. Must be the beard taking root; it'll make a dwarf out of you yet. Here," he gets to his feet and takes the spare key to Samaritha's room from the cupboard on the wall. "You can deliver the parcel to the lass's room, if you like. I was out most of the morning and shut away in here most of the afternoon; I couldn't swear as to who's come and gone today. You might check upstairs with Saul. If any of them came back and left again, they might have left word with him. And light a fire in the stove on your way up, set that stew simmering again for dinner."
Braddon calls out to the man as they approach the stables, not even slowing his stride. "Hi sir. Your second, third and fourth fastest horses. I assume a man with a golden breastplate just tried to hire your fastest. Did you give him a sprinter, one with endurance, or an old nag? What did he say?"
The man turns around with a look of surprise at being hailed so late and in so abrupt a manner. "Aye, Mr. Weatherby hired a horse for a trip to Roderic's Cove and back. Said nothing about a fastest, though; just a riding horse. How long you want the horses, and how far you plan to take them?"
"We apologize for the late hour," Malkith interrupts, "but we need to get word to Herr Weatherby about his business at the Cove - preferrably before he gets there. Can you tell us about how long ago he departed?"
"As soon as I'd saddled up Fonso and seen him horsed and ready," the man frowns, "I went in to make sure the rest of the stable was secure and the horses had hay and water until the morning. Just finished up now. Can't have been as much as half an hour. I doubt he's through Lubbertown yet; too much foot traffic in the streets in town to ride hard. Course, that goes for you too if you're looking to catch up. If it were daylight, I'd say to nip through the Boneyard Cut and you could be waiting on him where the road through Lubbertown joins up t'other side of the Boneyard." He nods to where the road climbs through the notch in the eastern ridge. "But no one goes through the Boneyard after dark. It's haunted."
"But as always, I would never send you anywhere milady... Any steps you take alongside me are to be your own, freely chosen."
She catches his hand at her face and wraps her own fingers around it. "But I'm no use to you if I'm always only at your side, not as much use even as Maddy dusting rooms and making beds at the Mystery of the Gate where she might see or overhear something you don't. If I only follow where you already are, you can use your own ears and eyes. Don't think I've resigned myself to being closeted up in Betta's shop being respectable for a living. Although it will be fun these next few days, being a fitting model for my own clothing," she grins. "Betta would be thrilled if I wore that stuffy old gabardine to work ... if it didn't also mean I had a suitor."
"True, it was what I said, but not what I meant..." running his spare hand through his hair before continuing "If you think you are ready to take wing alone... then you are." mulling a mite further before carefully adding "Would you care for some small challenges to spice the evening and give you more a chance to see if you enjoy it? Nothing that would risk or endanger yet, but should be real enough to feel."
At her joke on the gabardine Phillip chuckles with a wide smile "Aye, it might even be worth it just to see the look on her face... We walk out arm in arm at the final fitting?" half in jest.
"If the old broad ain't dead, Lil mebee don' need killin'."Larur lets out a wheeze of a chuckle. "Most sensible thing I've ever heard you say. Must be the beard taking root; it'll make a dwarf out of you yet. Here," he gets to his feet and takes the spare key to Samaritha's room from the cupboard on the wall. "You can deliver the parcel to the lass's room, if you like. I was out most of the morning and shut away in here most of the afternoon; I couldn't swear as to who's come and gone today. You might check upstairs with Saul. If any of them came back and left again, they might have left word with him. And light a fire in the stove on your way up, set that stew simmering again for dinner."
"I'll leave the pie to your care, then. And see what others might have seen. Or heard. I'd not expect they'd have done much...", Gristav said, comparing the cuts of the keys in the light of Larur's 'guest lamp'.
"Tart... pastry... a great, big stew... a metaphoric banquet!", Gristav grins, taking up the package and leaving Larur.
Careful not to take too much notice of Samaritha's room's contents or condition, Gristav finds some obvious place to leave the package, pondering a moment over whether the note, written in earlier winds, ought remain. Had he that editorial choice, still? "No", he judged aloud, the note being a part of it all, now, "Said, be heard, and writ, be read, if trail be turned... less tears be shed.", he hoped.
Leaving her room, he takes care to lock and test the door.
Then, the kitchen fire stoked and stirred, and stew set at simmering distance, Gristav ascends to the more rarefied air of the Casino's upstairs precincts, in search of additional witness of the days events. Witness taken if given, and given, if needed.
Samaritha's room is neat and tidy. He hesitates a moment over laying the wrapped frond across the coverlet of the bed or leaning it against the chair in the corner. At a glance, no personal items are visible, and he limits himself to a glance before returning to the corridor and safely locking the door behind him.
Having seen to the stove, he climbs the stairs to the second story and enters the owner's suite of rooms. No one in evidence in the more public areas, he knocks at Saul's office, and the door is quickly opened to him, revealing Saul, Tendal, and Bojasc. The news that dinner is warming below is welcomed, and Gristav learns that the rest of the away party tracked the scribe sending a letter to Lil in care of the harbor master which spoke of a reunion in Roderic's Cove.
"I know of this Weatherby," Saul frowns. "Arrived here from Korvosa almost ten years ago and set out his shingle to keep people's accounts for them. Only people I know flee Korvosa for Riddleport are usually leaving town a half-step ahead of the law. Not that I'd hold that against a man looking for a fresh start in a less regimented place," he assures Gristav, "but it's a thing to keep in mind when the evidence leads to his doorstep. They were going to go back to his office to find him and get some information out of him."
Gristav acknowledges the three, a single nod of his head, while his eyes meet each of theirs in turn.
"Let's hope they begin with his left hand...", Gristav grumbles. "How long are they, since leaving here? The Cove is two days on horse, if you want the horse to live. By ship, less, or still less, depending on the ship. If he's to meet her there, do you want her strongly enough, that we go after her? Do you want her closely enough, that we bring her back? Badly enough, that she survive the fetching? Or not?"
"And this Weatherby? Same questions."
"Also, the same set, for the governess, of Mescher's daughter. Disappeared, as yet undiscovered."
"And lastly, our own resident ladies. Whereat? And how long? I've concern and purpose for each of them, in turn."
He nods to where the road climbs through the notch in the eastern ridge. "But no one goes through the Boneyard after dark. It's haunted."
Braddon looks to the scar through the mountains where the path vanishes into the encroaching darkness.
"Haunted how? If it's safe in the day it should be safe at night. And even if there are undead, don't they only come out at midnight? We should be through there before then. Malkith, Dayn and I will take your three fastest horses and Sam can head back to the Goblin and tell Saul where we are. I ain't afraid of no ghost. "Despite his talk, Braddon swings his bastard sword round on his hip to where it easily accessible.
Malkith nods to the stable hand in agreement of Braddon's request. As the man goes to retrieve the horses, the Varisian lowers his voice, "You would be wise to respect grounds of the dead." He gives Samaritha a reassuring wink and smiles at Braddon. "Fortunately, I know a few incantations that should protect them from your impulsive tendencies."
Doing his best to stifle a yawn, he addresses Samaritha, "You'd best be getting back to the Golden Goblin before it gets much later. Give Saul an update on our progress. If the Fates favor us this evening, we will be back before the sun is up with Herr Weatherby; otherwise we'll be ship bound for Rodric's Cove."
"How long are they, since leaving here? The Cove is two days on horse, if you want the horse to live. By ship, less, or still less, depending on the ship. If he's to meet her there, do you want her strongly enough, that we go after her? Do you want her closely enough, that we bring her back? Badly enough, that she survive the fetching? Or not?"
"And this Weatherby? Same questions."
"Also, the same set, for the governess, of Mescher's daughter. Disappeared, as yet undiscovered."
"And lastly, our own resident ladies. Whereat? And how long? I've concern and purpose for each of them, in turn."
Saul laughs delightedly. "Oh, aye, I've purpose for each of them in turn as well or, better, both of them together." Tendal frowns gently at the salacious jest, but Bojasc's normally-impassive facade cracks with a grin and a single guttural chuckle of appreciation. "Saw La Barabbio after lunch; the redhead I don't believe I've seen since breakfast. She was worried the lot of you hadn't come back yet; she and Larur were ready to head up through Leeward and rescue you. The rest of them, it was..," he looks to Tendal for confirmation. "Lunchtime? A bit after. Early afternoon, let's say, they were here and left again to go back to the scribe's. Samaritha was here then; they mentioned seeing her downstairs."
"Lil won't be meeting Weatherby in Roderic's Cove; there's a point to remember. They took the letter before it was delivered so I wouldn't look for her to turn up there. I'll not deny being interested in hearing what this scribe might be able to tell us about Lil's state of mind and any further plans she might have beyond the opening-night robbery. But as Tendal's pointed out, the further from Riddleport our enemies get, the better off we are. At any rate, I'd not send any of you to Roderic's Cove; all that does is leave the Goblin's defenses weaker against anything else that might come against us. We've still a second evening to operate in a few days that's of more pressing concern to me than placing the blame for the problems with the last one. If Weatherby can't be nabbed before he leaves town, I'd rather let him go."
"And I don't like corpses. For one, they don't talk, not without magic we don't have the coin for, anyway. For another, they tend to invite repercussions. Weatherby not so much; I haven't heard that he's part of anyone's organization. But Pharasma have mercy on us if anything untoward were to happen to Lil. Shorafa'd have us all flayed and stitched back together inside out, and that would just be the beginning. This," he holds up his stump, "was nothing personal to her, but Lil's Shorafa's pet. We want her alive and in good enough condition to deliver back to the temple when we're done with her, no permanent damage, no hard feelings."
"The governess, though? Isn't she dead already?" He shrugs. "Don't see what good it does us to find her. Let Mescher deal with the attempt on his daughter's purity; we have a business to run."
"Haunted how? If it's safe in the day it should be safe at night."
"I wouldn't call it safe in the light," the man replies. "But most as disappear in the Boneyard do so at night. Then there's the lights moving among the abandoned ships. No one ever reports seeing them during the day." He nods emphatically, obviously feeling he's delivered irrefutable evidence. "Still, my horses are smart enough to find their way home if you're snatched out of the saddle and doomed to haunt the hulks forever yourselves. Coin up front. Two gold each of you, as I don't know you, and I'll give you one back when you return the horses."
Once he's seen the color of their money, the man heads back into the stable to ready the horses, leading them out saddled and ready for the road.
