With befuddlement at my sudden decision to call it a night, Syrune volunteered to escort me back. A very elegant gesture, one which I had to turn down. I had a rat to catch. A particular two-legged one.

Syrune departed to extract the endless bundle of vitality and annoyance, also known as Colby from the chaperoning eyes of Arlene. My path took me back to the gate sentries.

“Salutation, Guards,” I extended my civil greetings.

One sentry cocked a fatigued face at my direction but a look of recognition dawned on his companion’s face.

“Well, if it isn’t the arsonist of the tanner’s quarters?” exclaimed the sentry with a gravelly voice that hid his humour.

“Arsonist? me? A plausible mistake, perhaps? I am a law-abiding Dark-elf. Why, I even saved the good Silvaniel from monsters. The fire, an unfortunate accident,” I defended my honour suppressing my laughter. Laughter, that did not go unnoticed.

“So what can we do for our City’s not-so-Arsonist?” continued the sentry with words filled with teasing.

“Just a simple request. I am looking for a halfling. A devilish darling with a silver-tongue. Real Name escapes me,” I said as I let my arms slouch.

“About that, we know who you mean. we don’t know that devil's name either. Over here everyone calls him The Shaved Weasel,” responded one of the guards.

“And if I were in a mood to get a weasel as a pet, where should I go hunting?” I prodded.

“Bronzemirror alley is where you should start, but beware some uncanny characters were also on the lookout for the said weasel,” cautioned the sentry.

I thanked them both and after inferring the direction to Bronzemirror alley, I set out on a hunt.

*****

The bronzemirror alley had neither bronze nor mirror. The cobblestone tiled dark alley just snaked its way through another of the poor quarters of Sarenthill, where the city guards exerted a very inertial presence. Dingy and marred crates owned the alley which in turn were owned by feral cats, the true feline overlords of the alley. I scaled a dilapidated shack with deliberate care, not to alert the inhabitants of the shack to my presence. A muffled voice rang out, followed by heavy breathing from another. My fear was unfounded since the inhabitants were celebrating festivities of a private manner.

With eyes peering the darkness, I scanned. Two armed but not armoured thugs at one end and a bear of a human silhouette at the other, with four more rummaging the alley. Thugs are definitely not the appropriate term, for there was an element of refined gait. Private guards of a powerful noble or nobles.

With the assumption that my quarry is still in the alley, for it was not, the characters would have long deserted the alley. Both the exits have been blocked and the sewers, with their putrid and rancid denizens, one which I can personally attest to, an unlikely choice for someone who is called “The Shaved Weasel”. No, one does not earn the moniker “weasel” by taking risks. If his title were justified, he would slip right in front of their eyes.

After surveying the odd wreckage called bronzemirror alley, a dilapidated old crate stood still, silently like an inanimate object. But not the being hiding inside.

A few fleeting moments later, the soiled crate was not where it initially stood. It moved, inconspicuously.

I deserted my vantage position in favour of a far more comfortable seat. I sat on the crate.

My fingers drummed enthusiastically like a professional bard and yet fared no better than a petulant child at a dinner table with the plate for a drum. The cacophony reflected through the walls of the alley and resonated in a much deeper cacophony. A few perturbed voices rose in the dark and I responded to all the complaints with merry banter.

“So you want to still remain silent? Three of those armed men are marching in this direction,” I said controlling the glee in my voice.

After a moment of hesitation, the familiar voice decided to break the silence, “Please, I beg you. Do something to distract them. You will be handsomely rewarded.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Well, if it isn’t the poor motherless and crippled for a father half-elven boy,” A fake surprise exaggerated my voice.

“Ma’am, you have very good ears,” came the voice from inside.

“So riddle me this, how is it that a halfling was born to an elven father and human mother?” I asked.

“Ma’am,” a muffled silence followed, “I swear, it is all done in good jest. For I belong to the thespian society of Sarenthill. I was attempting to get inside my new role on the stage.”

“I suppose, you also did not take the money I offered,” I added in jest. My fingers still drummed to the irate of many.

“Of course not, I donated them to the orphan’s charity,” came the voice from inside.

Loud steps announced the arrival of four characters. As the footsteps got closer, the silence inside the crate became pristine.

“Dark-elf,” greeted a baritone voice, “could you please stop.”

“An audience, “ I ignored the request much to their chagrin.

“Please, I swear, I would do anything you ask. Get them out of here,” came a very muffled plea from inside the crate.

“Good sirs, it is just a humble wish of mine to merely hone my artistic skill, for my own wife has rather gotten intolerant, the past few months.” I pleaded.

“Can’t blame her for that,” an explosion of laughter erupted.

“Take the crate and leave, please,” whispered the voice, “Please.”

“Since you lot, lack the spark of musical appreciation, I shall take my leave,” A simulated disappointment marked my face.

“Leave the crate,” cautioned another voice.

“Kind Sirs, I will have you know, I and this crate share a very long history. Why, it was only like yesterday, I remember vividly. Me with this very crate, outside my love’s balcony. Her slender frame leaned over the balustrade, her hair dancing in the moonlight, played by the fae themselves. Then and there I declared that I would not stop playing until she gave her yes. That is how I married my wife.” I declared triumphantly.

“Guess that was the only way to stop you playing,” A chorus of laughter erupted.

“Did she ever tell you that you would make a better poet than a musician?” another burst of laughter followed.

“Sirs, if I may kindly enquire? which noble house do you serve?” My question took them aback.

“You lot are far too refined to be in these quarters. A simple observation. What are you seeking? and who do you serve? A lord?” A muted silence followed.

“A lady?” Feets shuffled uncomfortably.

“It is a Lady. You serve a lady, “ With a small jump, I exclaimed.

“So what happened? did someone trick her into selling something? or buying something?” Trepidations answered my question.

“Someone played with your Lady’s kind nature?” Heads turned towards one another and eyes darted with hesitation.

“so someone played your Lady and now you are here to resurrect her honour? A tale, worthy to tell. This will earn a few mugs with the regulars. So who was it?” I asked. Curiosity brimming in my words.

“Those are not for your ears. Grab you crate and leave,” uttered a gravelly voice.

“As you wish, kind sirs, but this will not prevent tongues from running,” I wagered and got only a scoff in response.

With the crate gingerly lifted I exited the alley.

*****

“Now care to do the formal introductions,” I sneered at the halfling who pranced in front of me, celebrating his newfound freedom.

“Thanks Ma’am. The name is Cedric twinkletoes,” bowed the halfling with an eloquent grace, “Now, I trouble you no longer for I shall take my leave. Should our paths meet, I would aid you gracefully.”

“Not so fast, you rat,” I grabbed the halfling by the collars, “We have things to discuss. But first what is your real name.”

“I gave it to you Ma’am, for my name is Cedric...” A low wail issued from the rogue as my hand grabbed a handful of his hair.

“Not that name.” The causticity in my voice floated through.

“Periwinkle swiftfoot,” he answered.

I pulled his hair, even more, extracting more painful screams from the rogue.

“You better choose your next words carefully. Play me one more time and you would earn a new moniker, ‘The Ear-shaved Weasel’,” I hissed.

“Therrin Proudwick,” came the answer finally.

The verity of his claim mattered not. I have him where I need him to be.

“Listen Therrin, I got a work for you. Something someone of your skillset could accomplish,” Leaning forward, we saw eye to eye.

“Ma’am, it is an unfortunate tiding. I was about to visit some very dearly missed cousins,” A heart-pulling apologetic face, wore the halfling as he refused.

“I can provide you with a way out of Sarenthill and protection of my mercenaries, think carefully. My offer does not stand for long,” I uttered.

The halfling's eyes widened at the offer of safe passage away from Sarenthill.

“Since you are my kind benefactor, Ma’am, I, Therrin Proudwick, shall set aside the needs of my cousins to aid my saviour in her need,” stomped the rogue with a proud heaved chest.

“Tell me, how did you manage to not fall when I lifted the crate?” I asked.

“I am a halfling of multiple skills. In moons past, I used to work with an illustrious circus troupe. They called me Master Proudwick, the contortionist. Sadly, not many folks appreciate of a halfling packed inside a box,” sulked Therrin.

A rogue, silver tongued and a contortionist, I might have hit the main stakes in winning him, that is if I could manage to prevent him from turning on us.