"Hm," the captive scribe scoffs, carefully reaching out between the bars of the cage to pull the bowl closer. "At least it's warm. Better than bread and cold meat or the leavings of some street vendor selling rancid meat pies."
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In the meantime, Gristav makes his solitary way downstairs. The dusty menagerie in the subbasement is pungent with its fresh inhabitancy. By the faint glimmer of his prestidigitated candlelight, the man in the cage is indistinguishable in the gloom. After the half-elf has stepped back, there is a moment of silence before a voice answers slowly from the darkness. "Choices?" it asks sardonically. "Is that what this is? To eat, or not to eat: Is that the question? Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer pangs of hunger or take up a spoon and end them? To live up to your own rhetoric, you ought at least to offer me a menu," he ends sulkily.
"Now, your business whore has crossed us. We don't want her dead just yet, but she's done something with my Gramma. Gramma was working up in Windward for a rich girl. Idle and self absorbed, perhaps, certainly spoiled. Lil disguised herself as Gramma to get close to the girl, drugged her and stole her valuable necklace. Rich girl has been returned to her father, but both the necklace and my Gramma are missing. The necklace was actually worth less than the poison used, so your investment sucks. More importantly though, Gramma hasn't been seen since then. I want her back now." He sighs. "I don't know anything about that, I've told you. The first I heard of it was when you mentioned it in my office. Lil's Windward clients didn't come to her; she went to them. They have too much to lose not to be discreet. It's possible she has another room up on the ridge; it would seem to be safer than meeting her clients in their homes with their families. But I honestly don't know." "Tell me again what this investment deal was all about." "Rare metals. Mining, I presume, although I admit I know little of the process. Lil was quite clear that it wasn't any ordinary ore but something special: something that only the Gas Forges could smelt. I know they're the only forge in Varisia that works with adamantine; you'd have to ask a dwarf to find out more about it. She never even told me it was a Windward client involved; I just assumed it must be a wealthy man to back such a project. She said that if we fronted the money for the supplies needed to harvest the ore, we'd be paid back a hundredfold when the metal was refined and sold."
The scribe's eyes flicker from Braddon to the kettle. "I was a Banker in Korvosa: worked for the temple of Abadar. I ferreted out merchants who cheated their customers, businesses that kept two sets of books, confidence men who sold fraudulent goods, tax evaders, and the like. The armor was my badge of office, and I used the manacles to deliver offenders back to the Bank of Abadar for punishment. The potions came from the Bank as well." "I served well and faithfully for several years, but no matter how many violators I arrested, there were always as many more out there perverting economic justice. Even worse, the Bank did nothing about the charities in the city, sapping the will and strength of the poor by giving them something for nothing, discouraging them from honest labor." Despite his precarious situation, his voice twists with disgust. "I grew ... disillusioned, watching the shiftless and corrupt prosper while I made do on meager wages. When the next charlatan offered me a bribe to look the other way while he fleeced the populace, I accepted. I was found out eventually, of course, but I had taken care to secrete my savings away under false names where the Bank couldn't confiscate them before I had collected them and left town. I had seen enough false sets of books to know the tricks of the trade." "So I came to Riddleport, a place blessedly free of hypocritical legalists. I hung up my shingle, put the paraphernalia of my past life away in the attic, and set about the honest business of bettering myself. A woman needed a private flat, and I provided it in exchange for mutually-agreed-upon remuneration. The peephole was installed by joint consent. Lil's business suffered when Orik Vankaskerkin killed Falk Zincher, and she wanted to keep some extra coin in her pocket each month; my business and investments were doing well enough that I was willing to accept non-monetary considerations in lieu of her rent." "For Cora's information," he goes on coldly, "I have never broken our marriage vows, despite the fact that she is an idle and self-absorbed woman who was coddled by her father for far too long. Like the poor in Korvosa, her lack of any gainful employment has left her too much leisure time to dream up fantastical slights and dreams of victimhood. Yet I promised when I married her to keep her in the style to which her late father had allowed her to become accustomed. Let it not be said that I have broken my word to her, no matter how much ill it has done her to be spoiled so." Malkith: While the scribe seems to be giving an honest account of his life, from his own perspective at least, it seems odd that he is suddenly voluntarily divulging so much ... until you notice the surreptitious glances he is giving Braddon's kettle, which has almost ceased to steam. Weatherby seems to be confessing at a length that will allow the water to cool before Braddon can threaten him with it once again.
"'Number books' are called ledgers, you simpleton!" he yells. "I keep financial records as a profession; it's not some kind of code. The manacles I used in Korvosa; what I took out of the crate were the potions and cape you stole from me. And it's none of your business, but Lil knew about the knothole. We had ... an arrangement to lower her rent. She didn't bring Windward clients to the flat, though; just low-lifes like that Sczarni, fares she picked up in Free-Coin, for the most part. Her Windward clients value their privacy too much to be caught slumming."
"I don't know!" the man snaps back. "You think I haven't asked Lil? She won't tell me. Says it's an exclusive opportunity, and she wasn't supposed to tell anyone, that she only involved me as a favor ... although I'm sure she needed my resources added to hers to come up with the seed money. She likes to be ... in control, and she can be very persuasive. Every time I tried to convince her to tell me more about the transaction, I came away feeling like it was really for the best that I didn't know." He looks frustrated and a little embarrassed. Braddon reappears in the doorway, carrying a steaming kettle.
"What ledger?" he asks irritably. "The record of the money we invested? The knothole and the manacles are nothing to do with Lil. And after I delivered the letter you apparently bribed the harbormaster to see, I visited a few clients with outstanding business to tie up what loose ends I could. I arranged with Mr. Squires to have a mount ready, then went home to pack and have Cora fix me an early supper before leaving town."
"We know that you were going to meet with Scarlet at Rodric's Cove. To what end?" The man looks startled that they're aware of his note but, with Braddon gone after boiling water, spends no effort in denying it. "To what end?" he repeats as if the answer should be obvious. "To the end of prospering my investment. Lil is my liaison with the operation; if anything were to happen to her, I would stand to lose my whole stake. Whatever it is you believe she's done, it would hardly be fair for an innocent bystander to be ruined because of an unrelated dispute. If she is in danger, I at least need contact information for the capitalist so I can collect my share of the profit."
Weatherby definitely looks the worse for wear, his once-immaculate traveling clothes stained with spots of blood and the dirt of the road, but he does his best to assume a dignified position in the space available to him. "Abadar's scales, man! What else do you want from me? I can't tell you what I don't know, and if you break me, I'll start making things up just to get you to leave me be. Don't think I don't know how this works."
"Rare metals!" he snaps. "Some sort of mining operation. I don't know all the details; it was Lil approached me about it. Something she'd learned about from one of her Windward clients, I presume. They needed the money up front for equipment and labor, and when the metal comes out of the ground, they sell it to the Gas Forges and we take our cut. The location's a secret, of course; they don't want anyone finding out about it and jumping their claim before they can extract the ore. You can kick me all you like; I can't tell you. Lil delivers the money to her client, and he handles the details." "The ship's the Teeth of Araska. One of Lil's more disreputable connections, an Elric Treeg, captains the ship. Goes by the name of Captain Grudge and does a fair amount of piracy along with a bit of smuggling, all of it under the benevolent eye of the Overlord, of course. He trawls the Gulf for ships not flying Riddleport's banner; could be away for days or weeks, depending on the success he finds. Lil enjoys getting away and not having to look over her shoulder for a while. At least she knows one of Zincher's thugs isn't going to knife her while she's aboard ship." "As for today, it was particularly unpleasant," he smiles tightly. "It began with my being harassed in my place of business by hooligans and scofflaws, at which time I discovered my property had been broken into and my privacy violated. Having been threatened, I spent the rest of the day making arrangements to go out of town, had an early supper with my wife, and then was assailed by highwaymen and bandits. Thank you for asking."
The scribe grits his teeth against the new assault. "Aren't you supposed to kicking a confession out of me in front of Cora?" he inquires dryly. "Or does she have to pay extra to watch?" Off Braddon's threatening look, he sighs. "Lil is a tiefling. She likes to say she's descended from the union of a succubus and a fallen paladin, but that's just marketing; she hasn't the slightest idea where the taint in her blood came from or even who her parents were." "She used to work for Shorafa Pamodae at the Calistrian temple, but her talents were such that she decided to go into business for herself rather than remain a temple employee. A wise decision, financially; it's always better to work for oneself rather than subsist on salary. She needed a discreet base of operations; I had recently become owner of the building my office is in and agreed to rent her the upper room." "Unfortunately, there was some unpleasantness between two of her clients, and Cleg Zincher's brother ended up dead. Zincher's men are all bloodthirsty thugs, and there were rumors that Zincher blamed Lil for his brother's death. She no longer felt safe in the city on her own and fled back to Shorafa's protection." He grimaces. "Personally, I've always suspected Shorafa of being behind Falk Zincher's death. She hated losing control over Lil and the profit her wealthy clients brought the temple. She certainly welcomed her back with open arms. But Lil never gave up her apartment. She'd grown accustomed to being her own woman rather than Shorafa's pawn and kept some private clients on the side." "We'd been neighbors for some time, and Lil had accumulated a tidy little nest egg for her efforts. She wanted to do something other than hide it under her mattress, so I've handled some investments for her over the years. Recently, we both got involved in a very promising opportunity with the potential for stellar profits. That's where the trouble started." "Obviously, the more one invests, the larger one's share of the returns. Lil became obsessed with maximizing her initial investment. That's how she got involved with the Sczarni. She met him in Free-Coin one night and thought that if she could convince him to commit some heist or other, she could invest the proceeds. I told her it was a foolish idea, that getting involved with such low-life ruffians would entangle her in a milieu she had no desire to be involved with." He glances at Malkith with a sneer. "But you know women: once they get an idea in their heads, there's no dissuading them. I don't know any of the details, didn't want to know, forbade her to tell me, in fact. When I heard about the disturbance at the new casino, well, obviously I put two and two together then." "When she expressed a desire to take a sea jaunt for several days, I encouraged her. Thought she would do well to get out of town until things blew over. But I thought she was just avoiding any inquiry over the casino job. She never mentioned anything about General Mescher or his family," he concludes emphatically. "All I know about that are the unproven insinuations you lot have made."
"This all would have been so much easier had you simply answered my questions this afternoon," he hisses as his hands dart in and out of various pockets. "I did answer your questions, you idiot," the scribe growls back, uncowed by his vulnerable position. "You just didn't like the answers I gave you. I had nothing to do with her Sczarni connections, and your accusations were the first time I heard she had anything to do with the Mescher family. Our arrangement was merely business, nothing more, no matter what silly conclusions Cora might have jumped to." In addition to his breastplate, which is of quality make and embossed with a key with a city roofscape depicted on his head, a device which Malkith recognizes as the holy symbol of Abadar, Weatherby is wearing a silvery cape and carrying the stout, brass-tipped walking cane he grabbed up at his office this morning to defend himself. The light crossbow he threw down appears more finely-made than Braddon's own, and he has a full case of bolts. His pack contains further bolts and the balance scale from his office desk with its set of brass weights, along with his clothing and other necessities, and Malkith finds in his pockets two small stoppered vials and a heavy moneypouch.
"Uncommon bandits indeed. I'm a bounty hunter and I get paid the same whether, Weatherby, you're dead or alive. Your wife was very upset to learn about Lil." "Cora?!" he looks genuinely shocked through his grimace of pain. "She put you up to this?" He staggers slightly as blood soaks his side, and with a look of disgust, he throws down his crossbow. "That b&%!@ and her jealousy: She's ruined us both." He raises his hands in surrender. "Very well, then; let's go back and pay a call on my wife." His voice twists in bitterness on the final word.
The horse begins to shy nervously as the half-elf waves the sword in its face. Unwilling to grab for the reins and thus open himself up to Braddon's attack, Weatherby instead slides rather clumsily off the far side of his mount. The horse, relieved of its rider, eagerly trots off, seeking to avoid the angry man with the sharp piece of metal. The scribe watches Braddon warily, holding his crossbow before him defensively.
"If we were common bandits, you'd be dead already. Ask another question and I'll shoot you anyway. Disarm and dismount, NOW!" "What? Uncommon bandits then?" he smirks. "I've still not heard any legitimate authority you have to force me from my horse. And I think your marksman friend skulking in the shadows will find armor less easily pierced than the thin air." He makes a quick motion to raise his crossbow. Initiative rolls:
"Halt! You're surrounded. You get a single warning shot as proof. Obey and you get to live. Throw the crossbow down on one side, dismount on the other and raise your hands so we can see them. Now." As Braddon calls out to him, the scribe reflexively begins to raise his crossbow, a movement that is halted when the twang of a bowstring is heard from the dark trees behind him and an arrow sings through the air to his left. His eyes narrow, and one side of his mouth twists up in a wry smile. "On whose authority am I bid to disarm and dismount?" he demands. "I warn you, I will not be swayed by common bandits."
Braddon approaches the ferry, trying to look like he's interested in anything but his fellow passengers, and one in particular. The man at the pole is Grimas Oltedler, and for a moment, Braddon is anxious lest he is recognized and questions asked on his previous crossings brought up. Before the ferryman can glance his way, however, Weatherby himself approaches the punter, withdrawing several copper coins from his belt pouch. "I need to be taken directly to the harbormaster's office, please," he enjoins in a clipped tone, less a request than a clear command.
Diplomacy rolls:
The scribe's eyes narrow as he glances from Gristav to Malkith. "I see," he says coldly. "The two of you have been in on this together from the beginning, and the Overlord's enforcers are aiding and abetting you in breaking into a man's place of business and a woman's private residence. I don't know why I should be surprised; I suppose the Sczarni were too enticing a potential ally for Cromarcky not to co-opt eventually, bring Lubbertown under his influence." "At any rate, I've already told your associate what little I know. If you've been upstairs rummaging through Miss Scarlet's belongings, you know I've told you the truth: She's away. Now that her privacy has been invaded, I very much doubt she'll return. She is a woman in much demand for many reasons and has good cause to desire a bit of seclusion from both her enemies and her admirers."
"Thank you. I shall tell her it was your recommendation. Are you the Weatherby of the sign? Or is he still to arrive?" He sighs impatiently. "I am Nathanael Weatherby. If you've documents to be drawn up or accounting to be done, I am your man, but otherwise...." As he addresses Gristav, the expression on his face suddenly shifts from annoyance to recognition to alarm. " What were you doing upstairs?"
Weatherby fixes Gristav with an unfriendly glare. "I would suggest you try the stationer the next block over; Miss Bick is her name. The quills and parchments I have here are supplies for my own use." He turns a questioning look on Malkith. "I believe this gentleman's business here is concluded? Perhaps he might show you the way."
At the sound of the bell as the front door opens, Weatherby starts self-consciously and quickly lowers the tip of the cane to the floor to lean on it in a less threatening manner. He gives no sign that he recognizes Gristav but lowers his voice to continue his conversation with Malkith in a more secretive tone. Malkith:
"At any rate, Miss Scarlet is not in, or," he gives the door behind him that Gristav burst through an uncertain glance, "is not supposed to be. I believe she was taking a brief excursion by sea. She often does, as the guest of one ship's captain or another. She departed on Moonday. Now, if you will kindly let me return to my business?" Gristav, Perception DC 18:
Braddon, Perception DC 22:
The scribe glares back at Malkith for a long moment. "I possess less information than you believe. Whatever this business is with General Mescher, I have no knowledge of it. Yes, I knew about the Varisian -- your Volo, I presume. She entertained him upstairs. Miss Scarlet was making an investment, seeking some financial security. Her profession is not one in which a woman's earning potential improves with age, after all. She felt that this Varisian could put her in the way of additional seed money. I very much doubted, given his ethnicity and general demeanor, that his line of work was within the bounds of legality, but I am merely Miss Scarlet's financial advisor, not her spiritual consultant."
"The Fates have shown me much, Herr Weatherby. Harboring a secret passage to your tenet's flat suggests your business with her extends beyond just renting a living space. Besides, you've already acknowledged knowing of her dealings with Volo. How can I find Little Scarlet?" Malkith glares at the other man, "What else do you know?" The scribe scowls back at the Harrower. "The details of my ... arrangement with Miss Scarlet are none of your business," he replies sourly. "If 'the Fates' haven't seen fit to satisfy your prurient interests, I certainly don't intend to. I rent her the space upstairs, and I maintain her privacy. There are people in Riddleport who mean her harm: How do I know you're not one of them?"
Malkith smirks at the reference to Volo. "The fate of that arratoi is no longer of consequence," he replies, continuing to hold his hands aloft, "but perhaps you did have something to do with regards to Scarelt's dealings with the daughter of the head of the Gendarmes? Perhaps you should call them down here; I'm sure the Captain would be very interested to hear what you have to say on that subject. It's not like he'd turn this place upside-down looking for evidence of anyone that may have had anything to do with the molestation of his daughter." He lets his hands fall to his side. "Or we can just forget about the Gendarmes and you can talk to me." "General Mescher has a daughter?" he asks, momentarily startled into lowering his weapon; then he scowls and raises the walking stick to readiness once more. "I only rent Miss Scarlet a room. We have a business arrangement, nothing more. I don't know what you think I can tell you."
The scribe's knuckles whiten around the walking stick, and his arm trembles with exertion; still, he can't seem to bring himself to swing the heavy cudgel. He steps defensively in front of the staircase door. "Whatever your argument is with Lil, you can take it up with her elsewhere. I had nothing to do with her ... 'dealings' with your kinsman."
As Malkith approaches the staircase, Weatherby suddenly shouts, "" and grabs the stout walking cane theateningly. Initiative:
Weatherby visibly startles when Lil Scarlet's name is mentioned. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," he stammers completely unconvincingly, "but if you've no business here, I shall have to ask you to leave before I call the Gendarmes. You'll find that the Overlord does not look kindly on Sczarni operating within his territory -- not kindly at all." By the end of his threat, he has recovered his composure and appears fully determined to carry through with it, casting his eye to a walking-cane leaning against the wall which could easily stand in for a cudgel in a pinch. The next moment, however, he half-jumps from his seat as a tremendous clatter sounds from the stairwell, followed by a solid thump against the other side of the door. A beat, and then Gristav makes his appearance and then his quick exit out the northern door; outside, first Daynadrian and then Braddon catch sight of him as he blends in with the foot traffic heading eastward. Weatherby stands gaping an instant, staring wildly between his Varisian visitor and the side door.
Malkith meets Braddon's eye for a moment before crossing the street to the scribe's office. As he approaches the door, a glance in the window reveals the man -- Nathanael Weatherby, presumably -- seated at the desk he and Braddon had so recently searched, a small pair of reading spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. A gold bell hanging over the threshold tinnily jingles as Malkith pushes open the door, and Weatherby looks up, quickly closing the desk drawer. He gives a slight frown as he takes in his visitor but asks politely enough, "Yes? May I be of service?" Malkith: Feeling conspicuous in your traditional garb, you get the sensation that Weatherby has something against Varisians. Whether it's simple racism or he has some tangible justification to dislike your people, you don't know. |