Standing up from the table and everything going slightly off kilter. Trying to nurse the mugs hadn't really worked. Getting my bearings and moving across the barroom, dodging around the much drunker patrons staggering around, bumping into chairs and each other. Using the opportunity to place my hands on some of the serving girls to move them aside. Getting some smiles in return.
The men's room retained all the original outhouse's charm despite the upgrade to actual plumbing. All the vertical and some of the horizonal surfaces scrawled over with graffiti. A particular scrawl situated next to a fist-sized hole to the ladies room next door promising a good time for a couple silver.
Giving a shake, leaving the bathroom and moving away from the sounds of the bar. The smell of tobacco smoke, alcohol and food giving way to the perfumed, floral and sweet scent of the attached hotel. The reception featuring a throw rug, a small desk and a few chairs. A bored looking bouncer briefly glancing up at my entrance before resuming his whittling. Madam Cecilia, one of the owner's of the establishment, sitting in a plush chair while playing a game of solitaire, the cards sitting atop an overflowing pile of paperwork.
“Mr. Macarthy, how nice to see you again,” the woman taking note of me entrance and glancing at a large timepiece on the desk. “You may have to wait a few minutes. You're very early tonight.”
“That's fine, but is there anyone here now?”
Madam Cecilia sweeping the cards aside without any preamble. The woman flipping through several pieces of paper from the pile.
“Let's see, I could put you with... no she's out running errands...” Flipping through a few more but shaking her head each time. “I'm sorry, but none of your usual ones are available, and it's dinner so none of the kitchen or serving girls would be available either. You're going to have to wait. Maybe have another drink at the bar?”
Quarter after six. Damn it. This should've been the simplest part. A delay here or a complication there wasn't going to be the end of the world, but it hadn't even started.
“That's a shame. Any idea when they're due to come by?”
“Shouldn't be long now, Mr. Macarthy, another half hour, perhaps. I could arrange to have someone get you from the bar, if that's alright?”
Need to get sober. Sewage would be preferable to any more of that swill.
“No, that's fine, I can wait. Mind if I smoke?”
“By all means,” she says, regarding me with unconcerned, half lidded eyes.
Trying not to grit my teeth and leaning against the wall. Pipe, where's my pipe? Rifling through my pack and grabbing the hardwood pipe with the likeness of a roaring beast carved along the entire side. Rummaging some more and finding a small pouch of tobacco. Striking a match against the wall and taking a few puffs to try and settle my nerves.
Take it easy. Still plenty of time and still plenty of time to back out. Nothing's been committed. Not yet. Its just nerves. It'll be fine. If it can be done, it can be done. If it can't, it can't. That's fine, too. Focus on staying calm and not getting reckless. Taking a few more calming puffs, stretching a bit and working to control my breathing.
The front door to the hotel opening some minutes later and a girl wearing a matted grey cloak drifting in. Madam Cecilia holding up a hand and motioning for her to stop.
“Mr. Macarthy, here's one of my girls now. Is she to your satisfaction?”
With that cloak she could be pleasantly plump or rail thin – not that that matters in the present circumstances. Seems nervous. Her dark rimmed eyes staying on the floor and refusing to meet mine. Perfect.
“She'll do fine.” The girl not reacting at all.
“Alright,” Madam Cecilia says, straight to business, “the standard rate, twenty five for the hour.”
“Well, the thing is, I was actually planning on staying the whole night, the rate is a hundred for that, if I recall.”
“Yes, ordinarily,” she says, slow and deliberate, “but tonight's the last night of the tournament, Mr. Macarthy, and there's going to be a lot of winners, and more losers, in need of company in several hours. The standard rates aren't really applicable. A hundred and fifty is more than fair.” Smiling politely.
“Madam, the colosseum is clear on the other side of the city so tonight's crowd can't be that overwhelming. But still, I understand the position you're in, a hundred and ten.”
The girl keeping her eyes fixed on the floor as the haggling commenced.
“Mr. Macarthy, I'm sorry, but you really don't understand the position I'm in. Even though the colosseum is over on the other side of the city every two-bit thug and scoundrel is over here. I even have extra muscle coming in to join our friend over there just for tonight.” Waving her hand in the direction of the brute sitting by the door. “Tell you what, I'll give you something to help you ignore the ruckus.” Opening one of the drawers of her desk and pulling out a small tin. “One hundred and fifty.” With an air of finality.
Every two-bit thug and scoundrel, huh? Cheeky woman.
“Deal.”
One gold and fifty silver pieces in exchange for a roomkey and the small tin. The girl's furtive eyes following the coins and tin.
“Bring the gentleman up to 201.”
“Yes ma'am,” comes the girl's replay, after a momentary delay. Her arms reaching out and ensnaring one of mine. “Please come with me, sir.”
Upon reaching the bottom the stairs her strength seemingly giving way. Pressing her healthy breasts enticingly into my arm. Beneath the heavy cloak, nude, or near enough. Her hands wandering freely, grabbing, diverting, stoking, misdirecting. She's good and, under ordinarily circumstances, she'd have been perfect. Right now, not in the mood and running late, and she's moving too slow.
At the top of the stairs my held arm pulling free and giving her a solid slap across the ass. The sound of the hit reverberating down the staircase and into the entryway along with a shriek, more in surprise than pain. Grabbing her hand at the wrist and twisting it behind her back. Pulling her close and bringing us about-face. The bouncer that had been sitting by the door now on his feet.
“Sorry, she almost tripped.” An utterly unbelievable lie. He must have seen the whole thing.
The brute looking over in Madam Cecilia's direction. A pause. Looking back, giving a nonchalant wave and retaking his seat. The girl starting to tremble.
“Move.”
Frogmarching down the hallway to the first door and sandwiching her against it, her pinned, squirming form tempting further delay. Finding the key and opening the door. The room spartan, but containing the essentials. A rickety table with an unlit lamp, a single wooden chair, and a medium sized bed with good quality linen set against the far wall. A window overlooking the street letting in the last red-orange rays of the setting sun. Giving the girl a good shove toward the bed, almost causing her to overbalance prematurely. The girl spitting obscenities and getting tangled up in her own cloak. Setting the latch and deadbolt.
“Bastard!”
She'd been wearing panties, after all. Girlish hips and thighs, farmer's tan, slim arms, medium sized breasts capped with pink nipples and just a hint of a tummy. Knuckles white and clutching a knife with both hands. It'd be a crime not to punish this girl. Maybe just a taste. Only ten minutes. Later, later. First work, then play. It'll be the cherry on top.
Her eyes going wide at my calm advance. Then, in an instant, staring at her empty hands uncomprehendingly before tentatively bringing them back to touch her stinging tear-soaked cheeks.
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“My apologies,” giving her a sinister grin, letting her know that nothing of the sort had been offered, “but I'm in a bit of a hurry. You're either going to have an easy night, or a very, very difficult one. It's all up to you. Now, are you going to be good?” Not that you have a choice.
“I'll be good,” the girl whispering, totally overwhelmed.
“Good. Wonderful. I'm glad you understand. Hold on a moment.”
The lamp on the table coming to life after fiddling with the knob and striking a match, and the half smoked pipe coming next. Dragging the chair over and taking a seat, and the girl not meeting my eyes. Getting punished is the only reason she's even exists. Taking another puff, the earthly flavor somewhat soothing my irritation. Calm. Be calm. First, the carrot.
“Miss, to get right to it, I've got business tonight. All I need from you is to stay put in this room for the next several hours.” The girl glancing up warily. “I should be back by no later than midnight.” Hopefully sooner.
No response.
“In exchange for your cooperation and silence in this matter I'm going to give you 10 silver. As a gesture of good faith. Right now.” Skeptical at that. “I'll also give you what's in this tin.” Her eyes lighting up at the sweetener given to me by Madam Cecilia. Predicable junkie whore.
“In addition, when I get back I'm going to give you a gold piece.” The gold coin making her mouth slightly open. Now, the stick. “But,” my voice dropping menacingly, “if you're not here, or if I find you can't keep your mouth shut, I'll feed you to the rats.”
The girl starting to nervously chew on her lip in a show of thinking over the situation, but we both already knew she'd agree. For one, she'd be getting free money for no work. For the other, refusal would have consequences. As far as feeding her to the rats, an idle threat, but it should ensure her silence. No reason to follow through if she holds up her end. If she can't, worst case, out to the Ossen Archipelago to lay low for a bit and some fatter bellies in the sewers. My lit pipe periodically pulsing as the moments dragged on.
“I just need to stay here and not tell anyone anything?” she says.
“That's it.”
“I can do that.” Telling herself. She may even mean it.
“Good. Now, if someone asks you about tonight, where were you?”
“I was... here. “ Sounding a little unsure.
“And, if someone asks about me, where was I?”
“You were,” a little spark going off, “here.”
“How long?”
“You were here all night.” This answer with no hesitation.
“Excellent. You sure sharpened up quick.” Nervous, and then a little thunderstruck, as my hand gently began tousling her hair.
With the bribes - the tin, the girl's knife and a small stack of silver coins - safely on the table, my focus changing to the heavy gold ring on my left hand. Firmly grasping the ring's bezel with two fingers and giving a twist. The ring giving out a single pulse. A final redundant check: packs full, weapons sharp and gear ready. The sun almost completely behind the horizon and the lanterns along the streets likely in the process of being lit. Time to go.
Pulling a bandanna up under my nose and bringing down the cloak's hood as a final bit of prep. Inhale, exhale. Keep heart beat steady. No sudden movements. Move with purpose. Be unobtrusive, unremarkable, invisible.
The street below the window, not quite wide enough for two horse drawn carts to pass at a time, only really used for foot travel. The missing bricks and other pockmarks dotting the facade of the masonry providing easy handholds outside the second story window. Closing the window and dropping gently onto the street below. A man several paces away continuing to walk on his route without noticing or slowing.
The streets near the Rat Cellar not very busy tonight and the smell of the nearby wharves, that mixture of sun, sweat and sea, filling the area. The commoners moving along the streets, workmen and ruffians, and beggars off to the side, not consciously noting my presence, and somewhat unconsciously shying away to provide easy passage. My dark brown cloak blending seamlessly with the dust and mud. A shark moving through a school of minnows.
Moving from street to alley back to street in a generally west northwest pattern away from the harbor. More cobblestone appearing and the lampposts filling with the glow magical light rather than that of burning oil. To the north, in the distance, the Great Western Road, which bisected the entire city. My goal still northwest, but continuing in that direction would require entering the temple district, which is to be avoided. Its bad luck. The worst. Still further west and north of that lay the noble district, which also should be avoided. Too many watchful eyes, even in the laziest of times, and especially so with the festival.
The better choice, straight westward through the merchant district. The streets still bustling, even after sundown, but easy enough to slip through the crowd. Glancing back again. Seems like no one's following. Even so my paranoia on high alert and my route deviating a few streets here, a few there. Always sensible to take the long circuitous route to a job.
Continuing all the way to the west, past the town center, to the north, and then a quick break in the crowd. The Great Western Road coming into view, once again, and beyond that, the guild district. Every structure, every overhang, every staircase, every shop, every inn and every former guildhall adorned with the trappings of the festival. All of the houses with their colors on full display, the mishmash of clashing symbols decorating the district mirrored by the crowd as their drunken celebrations spread unceasingly through the streets. The most prominent the colors of the remaining finalists: the blue and gold of House Stormhawk, the black and silver of House Solstice, the brown and green of House Haven, the bright red of House Wyrmsblood and the yellow and grey of House Mink. House Ishtar and House Koln's colors, one here, one there, noticeably fewer.
Not even into the district itself and the streets completely mobbed, with the throng only increasing in the direction of the colosseum. Impossible now to stealthily slip through the crowd, the occasional jostle now a constant low level battle of shoving and maneuvering. Pressing on and carefully studying the stonework on entryways. Not this one. Another alley, another building. Not this one. Another alley, another building. And, this one here, several random looking slashes carved at intervals into the stonework. Safe House.
Gathering myself for a moment at the entrance to the alley. With the tournament running at full tilt for the entire cycle, with the new arrivals and visitors swelling the city beyond ordinary capacity, piles of trash had become heaping mounds, the ordinary rats and roaches replaced by the larger, more aggressive varieties typically found below, and an alley normally cluttered now seemingly impassable. A quick step and a hop, putting one foot against the building to the right, hopping back to the left, back to the right, left, and finally vaulting over the huge pile of trash to land inside. Vermin and insects sent squealing and scurrying. A couple cycles' worth of garbage, more, accumulated in a few days. The streets outside bright with the light of the lanterns, but the alley itself doused in shadow.
Gingerly moving over and through the refuse while scanning the walls. Tapping here and there with a foot and every other step shooing away more rats and roaches. Approximately a third of the way in, a tap against a wooden section of the wall giving off a hollow sound. Inspecting blindly and revealing a small divot, knee high.
Grabbing my knife. Poking here, and turn. A distinct click. Pushing on the wall and a section a few hands across separating and beginning to open inward, a vertical line running downward below the trash. Only trash in both directions and no windows open above. No witnesses.
Taking a deep breath and crouching down. Slithering and pulling and kicking, worming my head and shoulders into the thin opening, the trash piled up about four feet above the floor. Another readjustment, and some more pushing and pulling and then my torso, and, finally, my legs. Giving a couple kicks to close the narrow opening.
Holy shit. The room should be musty but compared to the stench of rot outside its fresh and new. Summer is usually temperate, the ocean breeze keeps the worst of the heat away, but sneaking all the way over here while dodging through the crowds and wrapped up head to toe, its all too much. Is it really worth it? Crawling through garbage just to spit in Shaker's eye. In all their eyes. It hasn't been so awful, these past couple months, at least, not after busting out. Everything's all gone sideways but its sort of all settled out. Stretching my arms and resting on the cool, stone floor for a few minutes.
Sitting up and cracking my neck. Of course its worth it. Of course they deserve it for pulling what they did. And afterward, hardly an ounce of loyalty in the bunch. Every single one that shrugged their shoulders, every single one that threw in the towel, they all deserve to have their fun ruined. The prize chest opening later tonight and them finding it half, a quarter, full. Maybe only two copper inside. The lucky winner looking down and knowing he's been robbed. Shaker looking down, clenching his teeth, knowing he's been made a fool of in front of everyone. It'll be worth it just for that, and maybe this score'll even be enough for a final boost. Enough money scavenged or stolen to buy something nice, upscale and permanent after losing everything else. It'll definitely be worth it.
The small light from my match revealing the tiny cellar, one of the last remaining of a network that used to dot the entire city. In the last eight months most had disappeared, or had been repurposed, but a few like this one remained, here and there. The light revealing a small chest, a neat pile of gear, a few odds and ends and a lamp. Looks like everything's still here undisturbed.
With the lamp lit, my attention returning to the closed door to the alley. Taking a deep breath- No. Stop. Just open it. The bandanna's minor filtration doing little to negate the stench.
Fifteen minutes to unblock the entrance, the chest high trash cleared away to make getting back to the street possible without soiling my disguise. Nasty, sweaty work, but whether my cursing kept the vermin away, or the forcefulness of my cleaning, by the end of it they didn't come near.
All doubts about the night's plan had been shoveled away with the filth. Giving up right now and losing money because some of the prep went to waste? That'd be okay. Giving up right now and losing some time hiking all the way across the city, only to turn back? That'd be fine, too. Giving up right now after nearly losing my lunch and dinner while clearing out all that rotten festival debris? That's completely unacceptable.
Stripping down, tossing my gear to the side of the storeroom and siting cross-legged on the floor, preparing for the last bit of setup. Everything still here, counted and recounted. Subvocalizing, then whispering, the words on the parchment over and over to be doubly, triply sure. Finally beginning my chant in earnest.