Search Posts
"Gentlemen," the gnome intones with what dignity he can muster, "I am chagrined. My companion has behaved shamefully. I cannot say what may have led him to flee so ignominiously, but I can assure you that neither scent, the harlot nor the dwarf, lies this way. I shall attempt to locate and regroup in the pursuit of your quarry." Natinilinus decamps after his dog.
The dog, in fact, is cringing, the hackles raised on its shoulders. "Come now, Sludge," the gnome tells his canine companion firmly. "You've smelled worse than this before. Remember that days-dead rat on the verge of the Velashu? You positively enjoyed that. Come along now. Sludge! What are you doing? Hi! Come back!" Rather than continue to approach the bonfire and the long, low shack facing it, the dog turns tail and runs back down the hill toward the road.
"Delay, surely. Distraction, perhaps. Deliverance, yet unproved. The animal might have gained something, but not if we confuse him. Greatreave, we've a note guiding us south out of the city to a specific location. Will Sludge remember a scent, if he's hours from last having it? If there's a cue you might give him for that? To remember well? I apologize, I am ignorant of your art.", Gristav says humbly. "I'll have you know, sir," Greatreave replies grandly, "that Sludge never forgets a scent. Of course, he admittedly fails to distinguish between them. But if he strikes on something, it is sure to lead you to one or another of the quarries you seek. There is something to be said for the element of surprise, after all."
Natinilinus directs Sludge to the bed and, afterward, to the rug. The dog sniffs half-heartedly at the bedding and fur. "What about the drawers? Any clothing left behind?" the gnome inquires. "Better if it hasn't been laundered." With the half-elf's permission, Natinilinus searches the chest, ruffling through the few extra articles of clothing Larur owned and offering them to the dog to sniff. "Best we can do, I suppose," he concludes finally. "If there's a scent to be had, Sludge has it now. Any idea where we might begin our search? Where might your dwarf friend have gone when he left here?"
The gnome shakes his head sadly. "You should have had us here immediately. Sludge could undoubtedly have tracked your dwarf friend's very steps from this office. But, yes, to the bedroom. Everything here is hard surfaces, very uncongenial to retaining a scent."
The gnome and his dog crowd into the spartan office with its clean desk, hard wooden chairs, and key cabinet hanging on the wall. Natinilinus looks around with interest; the dog, with apathy. "The dwarf spent a great deal of time here? How long ago?"
Braddon's greeting echoes back to him in the empty main floor. Natinilinus's expression evinces distaste at the sight of the messy kitchen. "I would certainly not eat any griddlecakes cooked in here," he announces. "Have you any?" he goes on hopefully.
Natinilinus strolls into the flat after the men. "You brought us here last week," he reminds Gristav and Braddon. "I presume you are still seeking the same woman? I regret to say that Sludge has not stumbled across her scent anywhere in Riddleport. And the dwarf? When last you brought me here, it was a human, female, aged, you were seeking in tandem with the harlot. My associate uncovered a packet secreted beneath a bed in a row house in Windward."
"Very well," Natinilinus announces dramatically, pushing back his sticky plate with seemingly no recognition that Braddon is still eating. "Take me to this harlot's bed!" Mistress Crispin, emerging from the tavern door at the same moment, gasps audibly and glares suspiciously at the table as a whole.
"With the scent, Sludge can find them ... if we merely happen to stumble across their trail somewhere in the roads and alleyways of Riddleport. With their last known location, we can track them. Sir," he turns to Braddon, "I must protest the way you are drowning those griddlecakes in syrup. The intricacies of their flavor will be lost, simply buried beneath mindless sweetness."
Quinta beyond earshot, Gristav turns to Natinilinus, hardly breaking cadence as he answers him, ”The woman is a murderess, and never without her scent. You may even recall it, we’ll see, when sniffing is appropriate.” Gris chuckles, but sobers to add, ”The dwarf is my oldest friend in this town. My only, if I’d been asked some days ago. And she has him. As a lure, for a third man. So, perhaps still alive. We want all three, with varying degrees of benevolent or harmful intent. Sound like your game?” "I find, and I find out," the gnome replies. "I follow the Truth, wherever it leads. What is done with what I uncover is nothing of my concern. But I must know: where last seen, and how long ago? We must begin at the beginning, not somewhere in the middle."
"Hmph," the gnome comments, seemingly a little disgruntled that his information was unnecessary. "A woman and a dwarf? Last known location, and how long ago?"
"What news, Greatreave? We've some of our own, but I'm hoping to prove my praises of you, to my fellows, here. When you've breakfasted, of course." "The Garundi woman," the gnome replies, gesturing emphatically with his fork. "I have made inquiries, but as far as I am aware, she is not presently in Riddleport. A healer, in service to the ship Teeth of Araska. Travels under the name of Ishana."
"Gentlemen," the gnome replies, waving a syrup-dripping fork with dignity. "You will forgive me for not rising, as this is a particularly piquant stack of griddlecakes, and it must be savored at its ideal temperature. Feel free to join me; the good lady of this house, while leaving something to be desired temperamentally, is an artisan of the griddlecake."
"Excellent," Natinilinus replies, spearing another polygon of griddlecake. "As soon as I have finished my repast, I shall begin to make inquiries."
"Done," he agrees. "I shall ferret out this woman and her accomplices. How shall I contact you when I have the information?"
The gnome leans forward over his momentarily-forgotten plate, his eyes gleaming. "You want me to find this southern woman? Or discover the Cloud's secret?"
"You've discovered her whereabouts?" Natinilinus asks sharply."Only that a contact unilaterally planned to meet her someplace. Whether that means she was known to be there already, or to frequent it... I suppose I cannot know. We cannot even know she's aware of the contact's intent. But there's some intent to pursue that thread. Some, to rush like hounds. Some, after other business. But intent." "Hm," he turns back to his griddlecake. "I am an investigator. I find, and I find out. What's done with the information I ferret out is immaterial. You are satisfied you know where to find her, or do you wish me to continue my investigation?"
"Some talk of talking ship in pursuit of the perfumed quarry. Any interest in that? We'd not thought it your duty, but it might be ours, to indulge your will, if you would? I'll caution, you distinctive pair might tip a hand, if the gendarmes haven't already. Not that the rest of us, exactly, blend." "You've discovered her whereabouts?" Natinilinus asks sharply.
"Venison," he repeat, with a skeptical frown. "Flesh of a dead animal. I have sadly not succeeded in breaking Sludge of the barbaric habit. I suppose some aspects of biology are simply too ingrained to be denied." He waves his fork with resignation.
"Where in this town would a... dwarf, go for legal language?", Gris asks, taking a seat. "Gas Forges," the gnome replies immediately, spearing an irregular polygon of griddlecake and eyeing it critically in the sunlight before popping it into his mouth.
"Griddlecakes, again? Eternally? Would you mind if I joined you? I know we've an agreement, but you might have had other plans?" The gnome glares back, offended. "One might as well complain because one has only air to breathe. Do you know how many ingredients go into a griddlecake? And how many variants of seasonings and extracts? And toppings! One has only begun to sample the possible toppings: butter, herbed butters, syrups of various saps and sugars and fruits and berries, spices from Garund and Casmaron and the vast reaches of the world. The permutations are virtually endless. Eternally? Yes, eternally, and longer!" he ends on a oratorical note, brandishing his fork. Sludge watches it wistfully, wondering if the morsel pierced thereon might be shaken loose.
"Very well," he sniffs. "Do you want me to look into the ruffians who leaned on the scribe's wife? Or simply await further instruction?"
"Let's have a look at these trophies," he replies with interest, pushing aside his plate to make room on the tabletop. "Where were they? In what condition did you find them? Were they cleaned and pressed or all jumbled together?"
The gnome fixes Braddon with a cold glare before replying to Gristav. "I must admit that, in the hours since we parted last night, I have not located Lil Scarlet. No one seems to know where she is. The evidence, however, leads me to believe that she has fled with her landlord, the Korvosan scribe, ahead of the ruffians who threatened Mrs. Weatherby. Perhaps it's another case of a jealous lover seeking to eliminate a perceived rival."
"Did you get a good description of these ruffians?" "I have not spoken with the woman directly," he replies. "The information is secondhand. Rumor has it they were Sczarni, but with these Leeward matrons, it's always Sczarni," he shrugs. "To continue: Lil Scarlet's flat. Mostly emptied of evidence, save for the scent of her perfume and the seed husks and feathers on the floor." His chest swells with importance. "From an examination of the evidence, I would say that Miss Scarlet is in the company of a caged songbird, most likely a thrush. Find that bird, and you've found your tiefling." "What do you know about missing girls? We've found... something." "Eh?" he asks, irritable at having his moment stepped on. "Which girls are missing? From where?"
Impatiently removing the ham from his plate, Natinilinus simply eyes the griddlecakes for an evaluative moment. "New-mown hay" he concludes quietly before leaning into the tendrils of steam and taking a deep sniff. Only after that, when Braddon's griddlecakes are already more than half eaten, does he apply butter and syrup sparingly and take a first bite, which he chews slowly and thoroughly with his eyes ruminatively closed. "Let me guess- you located Lil on a pirate ship out to sea?" The gnome's eyes fly open once more. "A pirate ship? Don't be preposterous. I haven't been to sea and back within the last twelve hours." Giving Braddon an admonitory glare, he returns his attention to the folded paper by his plate. "Lil Scarlet's flat," he recapitulates. "Above a cobbler, a milliner, and a scribe. Building in question belonging to the scribe, one Nathanael Weatherby, late of Korvosa. Said scribe suddenly put his affairs in order and left town Wealday evening; has not been seen since. Scribe's wife, one Cora Weatherby, claims some strange ruffians came to her flat after her husband left, looking for him and claiming he was running away to be with a mistress. Ruffians have alike disappeared, and she now fears they were merely playing on her emotions to sway her to betray her husband's whereabouts."
Natinilinus's gaze follows the proprietor until he is back inside the tavern and the door closed behind him; then he unfolds his paper and begins again. "Quickly became a favorite of Mistress Pamodae, who trained her in her chosen profession. Opinion of some of the other residents of the House that Mistress Pamodae's devotion was one-sided. Lil departs the employ of the House of Silken Veil to become an independent contractor, as it were. Rumors spread that her clients' loyalty is ensured by means alchemical or otherwise uncanny, rumors that can be neither confirmed nor denied by the present evidence." He glances around the table. "The most public of the available facts about Lil Scarlet: Both Falk Zincher, brother to Cleg, and Orik Vankaskerkin, son of Saul, are among her stable of clients. The pair argue over the woman in question and come to blows in the streets of Free-Coin. Falk is killed; Orik flees. Fearing possible vengeance at the hands of Cleg or his ruffians, Lil returns to the House of the Silken Veil and Shorafa Pamodae's protection. However," he raises a disquisitional finger, "she keeps a separate flat. Attestation: we visited it last night." The gnome appears on the verge of continuing when Alex Crispin pokes his head out the door again and gives Gristav an awkward wave and an apologetic smile.
Natinilinus retrieves a folded paper from his pocket and begins. "Lil Scarlet," he announces grandiloquently. "Undoubtedly an alias, though her birth name is unknown. Arrived in Riddleport approximately eight years ago, presumably by sea, and took up residence in the House of the Silken Veil, already known as a haven for those of ... interesting heritage."
"That's okay. We uh... found... Mistress Vishki. Some questions about Lubbertown led us to Shoreleave where she... her body... had been taken. She was on the cliffs after all." "Excellent, excellent," the gnome answers, brushing past the fact that the woman is dead as if the important thing is that her whereabouts have been ascertained. "A second subject? What second subject?" "He's just told you," Natinilinus frowns. "Lil Scarlet. Although technically, she was the first subject, as you took us to investigate her home first."
The gnome fixes his eyes seriously on Snake. "Mistress Crispin's griddlecakes are, indeed, exceptional: redolent of freshly mown grass with an aftertaste of raspberry and tobacco, and sufficient to overlook the woman's less fortunate qualities. I regret to inform you that Sludge was unable to uncover a trace of Mistress Vishki after we separated in Lubbertown, but I am in possession of further information about the second subject of the investigation." He glances at the door of the tavern through which Gristav passed. "Which I shall be happy to relate once the party is again collected."
"Indeed, indeed," Natinilinus answers with a sage nod. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull gnome. Or half-elven gentleman, as it were. I can assure you, sir, that should you, in fact, be followed, you need fear no surprise whilst Sludge is nearby. His senses are always on alert, and he would certainly warn me if our rendezvous were to attract any untoward attention." The dog looks up at Braddon vacantly and whaps its tail on the cobblestones.
"Hm." The tip of an eyebrow quirks slightly; it's hard to tell whether he believes Piccolo's explanation or not. "Very kind, indeed." He turns his attention to Braddon. "My associate thinks highly of you, sir, and I have generally found Sludge to be an excellent judge of character. You appear distracted, however. Do you suspect you have been followed?"
Piccolo bows politely, "A pleasure, Mister Greatreave." The gnome's gaze quickly fixes on the new addition to the party. "Indeed," he replies dryly. "You are some relation to the jewelry-maker, I believe? Miss Kemplefae?" "We are also famished; might we eat, while you make your report?" "I should recommend the griddlecakes, and in furtherance of that recommendation, I shall happily partake of a second plating myself, as it is rude to allow one's employers to eat alone," he calls after Gristav.
"And the scene grows darker, ahead of the falling of the Sun... Despair begins to look restful. Mister Greatreave, perhaps your clever compatriot can again catch a scent? I begin to fail to trust my eyes, not to see, but to solve..." "Not to worry," the gnome replies. "My associate's olfactory orifice is unhindered by the gloom of night. I think the pair of us might attract less attention on our own, though, than accompanied by an entourage. I trust we can share any useful information we've mutually uncovered over griddlecakes?" He is clearly eager to conduct his investigation without direct supervision.
Having watched the unfolding of the packet with interest, the gnome interjects, "Sludge and I will go with the unbearded half-elf, if you don't mind. We are private investigators and, as such, inevitable rivals of the legitimate authorities." He imbues the two words with as much scorn as they will hold. "I daresay my successes over the course of my illustrious career have done little to endear us to the General and his staff. Professional jealousy can be an unbecoming thing."
Despite the keen senses employed by the party, the distance up the cliffs is simply too far to be sure of anything. There's a dark spot on one crag that might be blood ... or might simply be a dark deposit in the stone itself. "Do you reckon that part of the cliff is closest to the apartments? The murderer would head for the closest bit. The body would crumple and bounce. Possibly into those nooks over there. Maybe on that boulder over there." Natinilinus is along the port railing gazing up at the cliffs with the rest of the passengers. He nods at Braddon's reconstruction of the body's putative fall. "Could be, could be. Still, hard to tell which way something will bounce unless you've seen it. We ought to get several bodies, drop them off the terrace and observe them. Wherever most of them come to rest would be the obvious place to begin our search."
The gnome removes the packet from beneath his jacket, somewhat grudgingly. "If you intend to read it here, we should all remain. A lone man in sole possession of forbidden information ... it's the perfect opportunity for them to silence you and destroy the evidence. You stand ready to kill the charwoman?" he asks Braddon. "She may well be a plant, an assassin in disguise, eager to return the newly uncovered papers to her perfidious masters."
"There are two paths down the cliffs from Windward," the gnome volunteers. "The first leads only halfway down to an outlook over the Cyphergate and is maintained by the Cypherlodge. The second goes all the way down to the water to Windward's private dock; it begins at the river taxi stand and runs below half of this rowhouse, though not, sadly, directly beneath this flat. Still, it ought to provide a better vantage than the Cyphergate path, which mostly overlooks the harbor and the open gulf."
Braddon and Snake descend the staircase to find the gnome and his dog waiting for them in the entryway. Natinilinus slides what appears to be a packet of folded papers out from inside his coat just long enough for the half-elf to notice it, then conceals it once more with a pat of his chest. "Hidden documents," he hisses, "missed by both the intruder and the authorities. Have you somewhere safe from prying eyes we could go to examine their contents?"
Below, in Mistress Vashti's rooms, the gnome seems satisfied with his reconnoiter. "I believe my associate must have gotten the scent by now," he tells Snake. "Come along, Sludge; let us be on our way. Sludge ... come on. Our quarry is not under there." The dog slithers further beneath the bed, and the gnome sighs with a bit of embarrassment. "A moment," he apologizes to Snake. "My associate appears to have discovered some evidence of note. Let me confer with him briefly." He drops to the floor and slides headfirst beneath the curtain of bedspread. "Sludge! Come out! What are you--? Oh. Oh! You brilliant animal!" Natinilinus reappears from beneath the bed, grinning broadly and holding a small packet. "Hidden beneath the mattress and the slats," he explains. "And if hidden in one's own bedchamber, then hidden for a purpose that must be concealed from one's intimates? I suggest examination in a more secure locale."
"Human female." Natinilinus raises the edge of the bedspread and tells Sludge distinctly. "Aged, I take it, to be grandmother to one half-elven." He glances toward Snake for confirmation as the dog's tail thumps firmly on the planks of the floor.
"To Sludge's nose, no," the gnome replies with an enigmatic smile. "To my eyes, yes. If you were looking for someone, it would help you to know it was a dwarf, yes? Then you would know to disregard any half-orcs. Unless!" His eyes suddenly blaze with fire. "Unless there is illusion magic afoot...," he smiles at the prospect. "You see why my associate is so invaluable. A disguise may change the leopard's spots, but it cannot change his scent." In the other room, Sludge sneezes and crawls under the bed.
Snake follows Natinilinus and his dog into a small but neat sitting room. A table with a handful of wingback chairs stands before an empty fireplace, next to which a door leads into a modest bedroom. The gnome eagerly pushes through, with no qualms about privacy, and gives the hobnail bedspread a curious whiff. "What's the missing woman's name again?" he asks Snake. "Is she human, or elf, or half-and-half like your associate?"
As Braddon climbs the stairwell, Sludge sets his nose to the floorboards and snuffles about with interest while the gnome sidles up to Gristav. "Where ought we to be sniffing? Which rooms belong to the missing beldam?"
He smiles enigmatically. "I don't know ... but it's possible I could find out. We shall see where the evidence leads us, shall we not, Sludge?" The dog wags its tail vaguely. "That is sufficient; he has the scent. Where is the site of the second disappearance?"
Natinilinus walks in as if he has been announced at the door; Sludge skulks in at his heels, still looking as if he expects to be chased out angrily. He puts his nose to floor to explore, sniffing around with interest; beneath the window he snuffles up some of the fluff and seed husks and sneezes. The gnome strides across the room to the vanity table and chest of drawers, then to the bed. The top of the mattress is just at his nose level so he leans forward to take a deep sniff. "Ah, yes, the scent of woman ... of a certain social class and milieu, at any rate. Sludge!" he calls the dog. "Come and take a whiff." Obediently, the dog trots over and steps its front paws up onto the bed, sniffing avidly. "You have traced the perfume and know whence it came?" Natinilinus asks.
"Alone and accompanied, my good man, day or night, wherever the truth takes us!" He gets to his feet along with Braddon, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Lead the way!"
The trio reach an accord with the gnome and his dog. "If we obtain any information, how shall we contact you? Ought we to have a code word to scrawl in chalk on a certain streetcorner to set up a meeting?" he asks hopefully.
"Can we still do business? A lunch, more meals as attended, your portion as called from from my per diem, and the primping of your Sludge, until he might pass for a prince? One in disguise, of course..." "We are not 'for lease,' sir," the gnome replies with dignity. "We strive to maintain our independence from any particular patron, so that we may follow the Truth wherever it leads, and I prefer not to tempt my associate with the prospect of being on indefinite retainer. That is," he lowers his voice so as not to be heard by the dog beneath the table, "I fear he might intentionally lengthen the investigation to keep himself in griddlecakes. He is young yet and not as dedicated to discovery for its own sake as I should like to see him." He considers a moment. "You open a tab at this establishment for a period of one week for our personal use. If we provide sufficient evidence to close your case before the week is up, you will continue to cover the tab until next Oathday, the eighth of Arodus; if we have not uncovered your missing women, we may renegotiate at that time. That provides Sludge with both surety of reward and incentive to complete the task as expeditiously as possible, you see."
|
