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"He's looking for Olin. Checking up toward Leeward." Phillip: You pick up a bit of hesitation in her response. There's no good reason for Olin to be in Leeward ... unless he was visiting Taffy Plimpton at the House of the Silken Veil. You recall that was a secret he was keeping from the girls.
When within ear and eyeshot (having made no attempt at stealth) Phil raises a hand "Ho there... nasty business... could I bend a few words with Eulalie?" Lalie glances up, her own face and hands smudged and scraped as well. "Got enough things bent around here ... bent and broken." She tosses aside the end of a smashed plank she has wrestled from under a chunk of fallen roof. "I'd prefer my words whole and honest, if you don't mind."
Eulalie is still shooing a handful of sailors away with a dishrag to a chorus of hearty groans as Braddon arrives and occupies a chair. She looks at him with a touch of surprise. "Here, now," she sidles up next to him, his ear conveniently nearer her mouth now that he's seated. "You left a, er, 'package' with us this afternoon. Arnando has a word for you about it." She shoots Phil a glance, clearly not sure how much he may or may not know about Daynadrian's situation.
"If you had, you think I'd still be here?" Eulalie answers tartly, strolling into the room in her apron. "Dwarf with a money purse turns up, I'd be halfway to Magnimar and a life of luxury by now. If the purse is heavy enough, I wouldn't even make him shave." She gives Gristav a surreptitious wink.
Eulalie swings past with a tray of empty tankards. "Arnando has a business to run, and he's free to ban who he likes to keep the peace," she reminds Braddon. "On the other hand, he can't tell me I can't invite a friend to drop by my home to visit. You tell her to go to the back door, and she's welcome to a spot of tea and good conversation anytime. Especially if she'll help me wash dishes." She swats Arnando's legs with a dishcloth as she continues into the kitchen.
"Thanks, Eulalie. I'll be back. I like this place, nobody has tried to kill me here yet." She grins. "That's a feature here. I keep telling Arnando we should have it stencilled above the door."
"I'm suppose to let him know they're ready for him to make his way over whenever he is. But take your time, I'm in no hurry to get back. This is the most peaceful time I've had since..." he ponders it a moment before, "well, since never." He takes another drink. "Aye, stay then, Marce," she tells the other halfling, "and we'll see if Arnando can't get this business taken care of and back before happy hour." She turns back to Snake. "Finish your pint, and I'll let Arnando know you're ready if he is."
Snake nurses his tankard of ale while the working men around him finish their sandwiches and meat pies and begin to leave the tavern. When only a few are left, the halfling man calls toward the kitchen, "Lalie? You need me to stick around a while?" "Can you?" she answers, coming out of the kitchen, wiping down a clean tankard. "I'm not sure if Arnando's staying or going. Do you know?" she turns to Snake and asks bluntly.
"Aye, for the lunch hour," Eulalie replies. "Folks only get a short time off and don't want to spend it walking all the way to Leeward, so they drop in here and the food vendors set up outside to provide a bite to wash down their ale with." She winks. "When the workers are back on the job, the lads outside share their leftover pies with us, and we stand them a spot of drink, and everyone's happy."
"Psh," Eulalie scoffs, walking past with a tray, "thinks he does. You know Arnando, love," she looks up at Snake kindly. "Big fellow that's usually behind the bar. I don't suppose you've ever been formally introduced."
"Do I have a...?" Eulalie repeats, emerging from the kitchen with her hands full, looking harried. "Got the lah-de-dah Lil Scarlet favors, but I've never seen her in here with the lunch crowd." She glances around the room curiously.
"Oh, aye, you're that indispensable," Eulalie can be heard to snort under her breath from the front room.
"Like I can't handle myself," Lalie scoffs, heading back to her mop in the main tavern. "You think the place would fall apart if there weren't a man around for an hour or two."
"I can fill mugs," Eulalie points out. "And I can send for someone to help cover, as long as you're not gone during our busy time."
Eulalie, who had wandered over the doorway to overhear the conversation, shrugs. "He's the god of secrets and shadows. If we had heard of them, his folk would have been doing something wrong. Besides, there's not a lot of traffic in and out of Rotgut to carry tales to the rest of the city."
Piccolo smiles warmly, "A pleasure Miss Eulalie. I wandered in the front door of a gaming house and apparently joined a game with high stakes. We are playing now. This fine establishment is on the game board. I hope it is a pleasant place." "Always pleasant," she assures him. "Anyone not pleasant, Arnando shows them the door. That's the rule at the Publican: You leave your differences on the doorstep. The Publican House is neutral ground, not owned by or beholden to any of the bosses. All are welcome to enjoy an evening without worrying about a knife in their ribs or a hand in their pocket. Well," she shrugs, looking up at the red letters over the bar, "everyone except the Cyphermages. But that's nothing personal."
"If you keep coming in a pack, you won't get me to myself neither," she points out with a wink. "I'll say this, though: You've missed the dwarves today so your timing's getting better. Mind you wipe your feet! I've just mopped and don't want dirt from the road all over my nice, clean floor. Shuffle off to the tea room now, and get yourselves out of my way. Go on with you!" She shoos them toward a doorway next to the bar with the business end of the mop.
The halfling looks up from her mopping and clucks her tongue reproachfully. "We're open in the evenings, you know. You needn't always show up when I'm trying to get a spot of work done. " she calls over her shoulder. "" Turning back around, she spies Piccolo for the first time. "Hello," she smiles at the gnome. "They've picked themselves up a new stray, have they?"
Snake raises an eyebrow at the halfling before a grin forms upon his features. "I like you, little lady. Can I take you home?" he asks rhetorically, grinning. "Braddon, give this pretty little lady something for her trouble; she's been a perfect help," he gives a slight nod in thanks to her. "I offered to buy her a drink or two and she reckons she can drink here for free. So I offered to stay here with her and got told I couldn't. It's like they don't trust me." Braddon winks at Eulalie. "They're positioned such that trust is a greater than usual hazard, and even simple leisure might be irresponsibility.", Gristav says, smiling at Eulalie in hopeful apology for speaking of her and Arnando in the third and fourth person. "But to buy a lady a drink, one usually hosts her somewhere away from where she serves them. Shall I De Bergerac for you? Eulalie's kindness inspires, it would be my pleasure, once I was clear on yours and hers." Eulalie snorts. "And if I were to accept every young man's proposition who made me one, a fine kettle of fish the Publican would be in! You think Arnando can run this place by himself while I'm entertaining my many admirers?" She winks back at Braddon.
"Oh, it does speak," Eulalie winks at Snake. "Boss Croat's compound is nestled up in the cleft of the ridge in Leeward, but it's locked up tighter than an Abadaran Banker's last copper. Only way anyone without orc blood gets in is by invitation or in custody. You can find the ratcatchers easy enough in the alleys at night, though you're risking brigands finding you as well. Ziphras makes his rounds on Stardays collecting from the local businessmen for his lads' services."
"This is Riddleport," she says flatly. "I'd lay good money that someone's died everywhere. The Boneyard has a bad reputation; said to be haunted by the ghost of a sea captain who lost his ship to the moneylenders. If anyone disappears out that way, it's chalked up to Captain Cullie. Of course, there's any number of folks in this town happy to take a knife to a person, sink the body in the brine, and let the ghost take the credit." "I've never laid eyes on Hyram Krooge myself. Haven't heard that he's anything but a miserable old recluse. They say he has a ramshackle hut at the edge of the cliff where the garbage is dumped, all built and furnished from Riddleport's cast-off leavings; keeps a bonfire burning, day and night, summer and winter, with what he scavenges from the trash and the rotting ships. If anyone in Riddleport could tell you more about him, it'd be Boss Croat; he's head of the half-orcs in town, but he doesn't hand out audiences like candy on a feast-day. Or the ratcatchers might be familiar with him, if you can get a civil word out of them."
"'Balla....' You mean Bellamy?" she realizes. "Depuy's men frequent the taverns in the Wharf District. The press gangs are wise enough to leave the harbormaster's men alone, or he might be moved to crack down on them." "Any messages for me? Little old Varisian ladies walking through? Lil? Hey, where can I find an expert on the Boneyard?" "Wasn't aware this was your forwarding address," she replies dryly. "Nay, we haven't been flooded with love notes from your many admirers. Lil? Haven't seen her since Sunday, and good riddance," she says, with a glance back at the doorway Arnando and Gristav disappeared through. "I don't care for the way he fawns over her. The Boneyard?" she asks, startled by the philosophical turn the conversation has taken. "You mean Pharasma's judgment? I suppose Arnando might offer you spiritual counsel... or do you mean all the shipwrecks over the eastern ridge? There's a half-orc lives out there, but they say he doesn't like people -- why he lives in a junkyard, I suppose. You might ask someone who lives close to the ridge, or -- the ratcatchers operate out there. They take the rats they catch to the Boneyard. Some say they catch 'em again and release them back in the city the next night, for job security." She winks.
"Ballamy and Dagger?'" she repeats dubiously. "Can't say they sound familiar. Whose men are they?"
"Morning, yourself," she answers tartly but with a glow of self-satisfaction at the compliment. "How long are you expecting to drink off that gold piece, I'm wondering?" She glances up ... and up and up to take in Snake, trailing along behind the others. "Who's your friend? And is he half-tree?"
"I guess that's another drink I owe you. When are you free? We'll get drunk together. If that's your thing." Braddon's grin returns. "This might come as a shock to you, but I drink here for free," she winks at Braddon. Lalie is able to give the half-elf the names of a few young women and the families they work for up in Windward. Only one name is immediately familiar to him: that of the tanner's family, the Krupts.
"That's what I'd thought, but apparently the rogue Sczarni who led the attack was madly in love with her. And Shorafa even admits that Lil has it in for Saul. I think it's hopeless, but if you can tell me where to find Lil, we can at least confront her and hear if she has any evidence to defend herself." The halfling shrugs. "If Shorafa's not sheltering her in her fancy temple of ill repute somewhere, I wouldn't know where to find her. They say she used to have a flat in Leeward before the trouble with Orik Vankaskerkin and Falk Zincher, but I never knew exactly where. Or if she's hiding out, she could have gone to one of her clients, got him to put her up somewhere out of the way until trouble blows over." "Was one of the domestics in particular shepherding the General's princess? How could I find them?" "Well," she sighs, "they'll likely all be back here again next Sunday evening, but I'll wager you don't want to wait that long. I know some of their names and where they work, but they're not the kind of houses where you could just ring the bell and ask to speak to their maids and governesses without having the door . You'd have to try to catch them coming and going on errands or the like."
"Don't worry about Sam. Every guy with eyes told Saul he had to hire her. Even I may have suggested her charm and magics could be useful, not in a fight but in an advisory kind of way. I'll keep her safe. Why's she having a hard time? She's smart, kind and witty, not to mention very, very pretty with the way those reddish curls shape the gentle curve of her jaw and highlight the blush in her soft cheeks, bringing out the green fire of intelligence that burns in those knowing eyes and the way she purses her lips and the way she brushes her hair back from her forehead." Braddon suddenly realises he is gazing into a candle and returns to following Eulalie and gathering mugs. "Aye," Lalie replies wryly, smirking at Braddon's distraction, "that's part of her problem right there. There's plenty of folks that would be willing to pay her, but she's not selling what they're looking to buy. Her bigger problem," she moves on to the next table, "is that Elias Tammerhawk's a right bastard and thinks the fewer people he lets in his club, the more superior it proves he is. Cypherlodge is a hard nut to crack. Being a woman, a Varisian, and not entirely human... well, those are all strikes against her as well, in Tammerhawk's book, at least." The tale Braddon goes on to weave is enough to make the halfling stop in her tracks. "Lil Scarlet and the Sczarni? Oliver Bott and Anton Mescher?" She herds the half-elf back into the kitchen to dump his tray and fixes him with a gimlet eye. "What's all this nonsense? I wouldn't think Lil would have a thing to do with the Sczarni, as high as she keeps her nose in the air. And the trouble in Windward was with Anton Mescher's daughter?" She frowns, thinking back to the previous night. "There was an unfamiliar face with the Windward girls last night, but I assumed she was a new hire in one of the houses up there. They seemed to be having a grand time; she certainly didn't seem to be there against her will. You sure she didn't just sneak out for a night on the town and is lying now to avoid trouble with her da?" she asks skeptically.
"Have you heard what's happened last night and today? I'm right in the middle of it. Is it always like this around here?" "So you got hired on by Old Stumpy at the Gold Goblin then, eh?" Eulalie answers cheerfully. "I'd heard he'd taken on that fancy gentleman from Magnimar as his capp, but I didn't know you'd been a package deal. What about Samaritha? Did you put in a word for her and get the poor girl a job for the night? She's had a difficult time of it since leaving her family." Lalie is a busy woman; she seems never to stop circulating through the three rooms, but by following her on her rounds and helping her carry trays and beer mugs, Braddon is able to collect her take on the events of the last 28 hours. "Aye, it's always something in Riddleport. Sczarni's a new twist, though. Everyone knows they operate in Lubbertown, but they've kept their dealings to their own kin before. I hear tell Old Stumpy's first wife was Varisian, and they say there was trouble with Sczarni back then -- but that was long before my time." She doesn't volunteer anything about the trouble at Ananda Mescher's flat; when Braddon asks specificallly about the disturbance in Windward District, she replies vaguely, "Oh, aye, there was some kerfuffle up there with the Gendarmes this afternoon. Thief broke into one of the wealthy folk's homes, as I understand. We don't have much to do with Windward down here by the river. They're a bit too genteel to pay homage to the Lucky Drunk; probably have glittering little household shrines to Abadar hidden away up there somewhere. I imagine we'll hear more about it next Sunday when the domestics have an evening free; we'll get a gaggle of girls in then who clean house and cook meals up there who'll carry down all the latest rumors."
Lalie smiles broadly up at the half-elf, seemingly genuinely pleased to see him. "Well, look what came in with the tide! Braddon, wasn't it? Carry them through to the kitchen, if you would, there's a good lad." She gives the table a last quick swipe and follows him. "We manage, Arnando and I. And our regulars will give us a hand." She gives the full tray in his hand a significant smirk. "Dump those in the tub. Not the stein." She steps in quickly to snatch the covered mug off the tray and set it on a low table. The kitchen is small and serviceable. A door in one wall looks to lead behind the bar in the main common room; one opposite is propped open to the road to let in a breeze; the door in the third wall is closed. Atop the stove, a tea kettle is set just off the fire, and a small pot of what seems to be fish stew is simmering. A small rolling staircase, the miniature of what Braddon might have seen in a library if he had ever been in one, is near the stove, allowing Lalie access to the stovetop.
Lalie approaches the table with a tray of ales; glancing up, Gristav can see the man whose chair he took with a fresh mug of his own. "Here you go, lads, courtesy of your new acquantance." She sets two tankards in front of Gris, one open and full of ale, the other a closed stein. "That'un's a mite substantial," she warns him significantly before returning toward the kitchen. The closed stein, unlike the mugs of ale, seems to radiate heat as Gristav reaches toward it. Flipping up the hinged cover, he finds it to contain a hearty fish stew, the stem of a wooden spoon visible protruding above the surface of the broth.
Just the other side of the kitchen door, Gristav had noted some cleaning utensils. Ducking back into the hallway, he finds a Medium and a Small broom, the Small version showing more signs of use. The kitchen is surprisingly clean; but some dust and debris have sifted in the open door, and there are at least the dirty bootprints he himself left behind to erase. He has just finished brushing the sweepings out the back door after his basin-water when Lalie enters the kitchen once again. "I didn't set you to work for the privilege of not tracking mud across the floor," she scolds, rushing to take the broom out of his hand. "Go and get yourself an ale; see if Arnando's found you a bed for the night."
The halfling frowns his money back into his pouch. "More water than that ran past us in the river just now, and you'll be handing me the basin back when you're done unless you break it. Save your coin to buy yourself an ale when you're presentable among civilized company -- or what passes for it in the common room, anyway. Arnando's room is back there," she nods to a door standing slightly ajar; "step back there if you need some privacy. Gristav. Unusual name. Not Varisian, is it?"
"I'm really very appreciative...", Gristav says, trying to keep ahead of the tray's edge. Did she actually sharpen that thing? He worked to suppress a smile at the ridiculousness of the scene, being in complete agreement with the onlookers who took to chuckling at the spectacle. Couldn't smile; he was supposed to be embarrassed, not triumphant. But he had come to be seen... "Tch," Lalie clucks dismissively. "I'd toss you in the Velashu, but you'd just come out dirtier." Giving Gris a final shove into a small kitchen, she follows him in, dumps the used mugs into a battered tin tub below a pump, and goes to check a kettle on the stove. "I try to keep it warm in case I need a cuppa," she explains. "Here now, prove you're not a waste of height and pull down a basin out of that cabinet up there," she directs him. As he complies, she examines him for a moment in the light from the oil lamp. "I've seen you in here before, haven't I? Something to do with the Gas Forges?" She pours the hot water into the basin, then goes to refill it at the pump and sets the kettle back on the stove.
Gristav: The bartender pauses, frowning at you, whether in thought or in disapproval of your tracking grime into his tavern, but before he can answer, you feel a prodding at the back of your knee. "Get these filthy boots off my clean floor," the halfling says mildly. "Hot water, I can handle; give Arnando a chance to rustle up a berth for you somewhere. Come on now, move." She gives your legs an insistent shove with the edge of her tray, herding you toward the door behind the bar.
Back at the Publican House, the "little halfling's room" proves to be the river out front. As Phillip is re-entering the tavern to join up with Sarien, he notes that Eulalie has returned to her mopping in the common room. She glances back at the door to the morning room, then gestures to Phil to come closer. "You think you're pretty flash, I can tell," she tells him in a low voice around her mop handle. "You're a big man in your own mind, and that's as it should be. But there's those in Riddleport that all they see when they look at you is a halfling just the right size to toss in their ship's hold and sell in Cheliax. Right now, you're nameless, and nobody knows you. The first thing you do, is you get some people to know your name, who'll notice if you up and disappear. That's the best protection money can't buy in Riddleport, is to be known. Find some friends the scum and lowlife won't want to cross, and stick with them."
At the bar, Braddon responds to Arnando, "From our brief talk, Eulalie seemed nice. If she offered I'd..." "Here, now!" Eulalie snaps a dishtowel against Arnando's leg in faux indignation. "He hasn't even bought me the drink he promised me yet." She winks at Braddon.
She shrugs and moves to mop up the trail of road dust Tendal left behind him. "Like I said: we get in a ship from time to time. Name's Eulalie Makeckney, and this is the Publican House: neutral ground, not claimed by any faction. Everyone's welcome and supposed to leave their arguments at the doorstep. Well, except for the Cyphermages. Not a thing wrong with most of them, either. It's just that when someone's had a drop too much and smashes up part of the place, their bosses are good for the repairs -- and for straightening out their boys in the future. Elias Tammerhawk, he doesn't care; Cypherlodge gold is too good to pay for the curtains some drunk mage set on fire or the bottle of wine smashed when another clever wizard thinks it's funny to make it as slippery as soap in a washbasin. So, after getting nowhere with his complaints a time or two, Arnando added that." She nods up at the painted letters on the wall. "It'll paint over easy enough if Tammerhawk changes his ways -- or the Cypherlodge changes its management. You needn't worry about your safety here. No press gangs and nothing in the cups but what Arnando pours. It's his calling to make this the one place in Riddleport a person can enjoy an evening without worrying about being press-ganged or pickpocketed or finding a knife in his ribs courtesy of some enemy of his boss looking to send a message." |
