Cleg Zincher's page

"I thank you for the information, Mr. Zincher. Being a newcomer to Riddleport, I haven't yet learned the local law and customs. I would hate to offend in a manner detrimental to my prosperity. You have been a generous host with your time and information."

Zincher waves off the thanks. "Any friend of Will's," he grins. "Enjoy the fights."

"Delegation is a quality of a successful businessman. I like a man that understands the maxim 'The right man for the right job'." Piccolo watches the current fight from Cleg's box. "What of the half-orcs? A rather violent looking bunch. One of the men in the box glared at me. A very uncomfortable position for someone of my small stature. I hope there is no general dislike of small folk amongst them. I would prefer not to be mugged by half-orcs."

Zincher appears unmoved by his gladiator's loss on the sand below. "Nah, you shouldn't have a problem with the orc-blooded. Croat keeps them in line. Unless you're a property owner not paying his protection money," he grins. "But that woud be thoroughly sanctioned; it wouldn't a rogue agent you'd have to worry about."

"Verily! A most astute observation about the ego of artists. I imagine being tolerant of temperamental personalities is useful for an arena owner. Gladiators must be as temperamental as artists."

He shrugs his massive shoulders. "I don't deal with them directly. I have a man for that. I'm not really the violent type." He smiles self-deprecatingly.

"No, Mr. Zincher. The box provided an excellent view. But Will was engrossed in his craft, and I didn't want to disturb him. I know how we gnomes are when it comes to our work. It consumes us. Another in the box would be an unnecessary distraction, possibly at the wrong time such as when perfect inspiration enters the spirit."

Zincher harrumphs thoughtfully, then breaks into a grin. "Temperamental sort, Will, isn't he? I don't judge. Artists usually are. I'm used to it; I work with all kinds."

Piccolo nods. He stands and follows the game. "Lead on, my good man. I always enjoy a conversation with prominent people."

The gnome follows the other man up the tiered steps toward the box, where the line of watchmen parts to let the pair through. Piccolo comes to a stop on the bench just outside the box's canopy. Cleg Zincher is eating a piece of fruit and takes a moment to swallow, while the Korvosan bodyguard glares and the woman looks on quizzically. Zincher picks up a folded linen napkin to wipe his fingers before turning his attention to Piccolo.

"Something wrong with the box I provided?" he asks in his surprisingly mild voice.

"Hmph!" the gnome snorts thoughtfully. "I'd prefer natural lighting ... but I suppose that would be adequate, if it's the best you can do."

Zincher shoots a skeptical glance at Akron, who gives him a reassuring nod. "All right then," he agrees. "I'll send a runner to tell you when and where. In the meantime, why don't you stay for the afternoon's bouts? You and your guest, of course," he raises his chin to include Piccolo loitering in the background.

Zincher hesitates, throwing a glance at the Shoanti. "I was thinking you might paint the banner first, get the public worked up for their debut appearance."

"Erix! Mr. Zincher!" he shouts without slowing his approach. "When am I going to get a chance to see those birds of yours in action, hmm? You want them on the side of the arena, I'm going to have to see how they kill! Do they peck, or do they kick? I'm hoping they peck; blood and viscera are better than bruises, hey?"

The seated man looks up in surprise at the gnome's approach and, despite his bull neck and broad shoulders, looks almost sheepish. "Will," he greets Swevenforey in a surprisingly mild voice. "I... Hasn't Akron been giving you access to the mews for sketchwork?" He looks at the man with the shaved head questioningly.

"'Common cause?'" he repeats scornfully. "What the hell is this, Saul? A joke? Who the hell are you?" he goes on, leaning into Gristav's face. "I don't know you. You're a nobody, working for a has-been, and you think you're going to bargain with me? If there were anything I wanted in this whole shabby outfit, you think I couldn't just pull the place apart and take it?" He pauses just long enough to let his lip curl with contempt, then heads down the stairs to collect his entourage and leave without a backward glance. "Let's go, boys. There's nothing here worth our time."

"Yes, like now. And yet, he was part of finding... what we've found.", Gristav says of Braddon. "If there's common cause, we could compare. There is much of interest. But I suppose that would be Saul's choice to make."

"What?" Zincher snaps irritably, looking from Gristav to Braddon and back. "What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?"

At Saul's reference to the dangers of Free-Coin, Zincher gives him a hard glare, but Saul's easy grin doesn't falter. "Aye, well," Cleg replies sullenly, "there's a lot of places in Riddleport that aren't safe, depending on who you are. Come on, boys," he turns back toward the door and his entourage. "Time to go."

"What's that?" He cups his hand to his ear, as if unable to understand Larur's rasping voice. When the dwarf has repeated himself at the utmost of his volume, Zincher looks down at him in surprise. "Really? How odd. You'd think I'd have heard something about it."

"Why, I wouldn't forget the man who gave me my start," Cleg Zincher responds affably. "I heard about your little business here and thought I'd drop by and wish you luck for your opening." Although Saul has made no gesture of welcome, he steps in as if he had been invited, wandering toward the dais in the middle of the room and looking around the casino floor with mild interest.