image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]
----------------------------------------
After stopping a while to watch and chuckle at Mayor Barbitus’ latest ill conceived attempt to woo Luvelia Presimis in the square outside the Lost Love Lodge, Rumdoodle made her way slowly across town to The Silver Scale, a run down old bar and bunkhouse near the lakeshore.
Most businesses in Loverlock catered almost exclusively to an elite clientele. It was one of the many results of their long term reliance on tourism from the wealthy cities of the Wine Sea.
Loverlock’s many boutiques put on a show of having polite and worldly doormen to greet their patrons. They served complimentary tea or sparkling cider to all their prospective customers, and their staff spoke with clear Heartland accents, lest the rich find their ears offended by so much as an unfamiliar dialect. Every aspect of Loverlock’s facade served that upmarket tone.
On some level, Rumdoodle enjoyed the performance of it, the mask pulled over an entire town so Lovelock could pretend that it was just an idyllic summer playground for the rich, as opposed to a place where real people lived and worked and life went on year round. Like most good masks, you only saw the cracks if you looked too close.
But, like all towns of any decent size, Loverlock also needed a place that didn’t cater solely to visitors, a well kept secret known only to locals and the kind of folks who’d get awkward glances if they strayed into the midst of high society.
The Silver Scale had the dubious honour of being that place. It was the only truly shabby and disreputable bar in Loverlock, a dive where hundreds of unacknowledged dockworkers and labourers, who got paid a pittance to keep the wheels of the town turning, could gather to drink and play and generally let off steam.
The bar squatted at the farthest end of the Loverlock waterfront, perhaps deliberately hidden from view of the Lost Love Lodge and town centre by the Merchant Guild’s splendid new warehouse complex. It was like they’d tried to cordon it away from the rest of the town.
Local legend said that successive mayors tried to have it pulled down on multiple occasions over the years, calling the bar a horrendous eyesore. Each time, Loverlock’s under-appreciated workforce reared its head and nearly brought the town to its knees with mobilised strikes and demonstrations. Thanks to them, The Silver Scale hunched out there at the edge of town just as proudly today as it had back when it first opened its doors.
It was three rambling storeys of old crooked timbers and cider stains, and its roof bristled with more chimneys than you’d ever expect to stem from a single building. Benches outside on the lawn were being swiftly claimed by groups of drinkers preparing for the sunny day ahead, and the stables around the back were full to bursting with carts and hitched animals. A lot of people from local villages along the Allura River would no doubt be staying in the boarding rooms upstairs for the festival, although affordable space in town was scarce and even more groups tended to camp in farmland around the lake to hold their own mini celebrations as night fell.
Rumdoodle walked in through the front door, past a bench full of smoking old-timers, and breathed in that familiar smell of stale alcohol, sweat, and varnish.
It was sweltering mid morning, but the bar was open early and already packed full of patrons chatting and laughing, with their collars open and brows dripping in the summer heat. A large group of dock workers seemed to be playing a drinking game that consisted of downing a row of cider tankards and placing bets on who among them would make it through the day without passing out and publicly shaming themselves for the year ahead.
Not Rumdoodle’s idea of a good time, but to each their own.
It was the day of the Lovers’ Festival after all. Most people of the town were off work and making the most of it, apart from some few shops that stayed open until mid afternoon to catch the last influx of visitor business.
A palpable current of energy ran through the streets and every person tuned into it, swayed by its momentum in the same way that the mood of an entire crowd can unanimously shift in a single second without a word being spoken. Years on the streets had taught Rumdoodle how to read those changes almost unconsciously. Lovelock was ready to party. Things would only get more rowdy as day turned into night and the stars came out to watch the festival-goers’ indiscretions. Allura’s religious holiday was supposed to enshrine a reverence for love and companionship, but unsurprisingly over time it had become little more than an excuse to get very drunk and hook up with strangers.
And, of course, there would be reporters crawling over every inch of town hoping to catch some noble heir in the process of ruining their good name. Every year a few poor fools with more money than sense made the front page of the Wine Sea tabloids and spent the next few months in the grip of the resulting scandals. You’d think they’d learn better and stop coming, but every summer just like clockwork the Lovers’ Festival drew back hordes of the young, the noble, and the wealthy like moths to a flame.
Not that any of that mattered to the patrons of The Silver Scale, they weren’t types to care about the goings on of the nobility, except insofar as it threatened their livelihoods or their entertainment. These folks just wanted a chance to cut loose and enjoy the holiday..
She had a soft spot for The Silver Scale. It reminded her of an old bar back in Westport, near the district she ran in before she got picked up by the Jesters. The two bars had the same smell, and the patrons were a similar mix of hard working labourers always tired from their shifts. In the winter, the owner occasionally let her sleep in the kitchen and he gave her table scraps in return for helping with the dishes when the usual lad didn’t turn up. Those evenings there, warm and fed, were some of the few happy memories she had from those early years on the street. But then that old bar got gutted out and replaced. She couldn’t even remember its name. Still, the Scale felt the same and she always liked to visit it when she was in town.
Today though, she was here on business. A meeting with her contact for the upcoming festival job.
Rumdoodle crossed The Silver Scale’s common room and approached the bar, pleased to note that no-one was paying too much attention to her outside the expected leering a woman got when men and alcohol were combined. Perhaps it was better to say no-one was paying the wrong kind of attention, the type that let you know you looked out of place and everyone around you had noticed. She was wearing a version of her Orend illusory disguise, with worn but plain clothes and a web of weathering lines on her skin that told of a life working too many hours of hard labour outside in the sunny fields.
A small part of her occasionally felt guilty for putting on the mask of the hardship that these people lived for real every day. Then again, being able to pull an illusion over her face was a nice trick when Darrowfig Sable could be around any corner, waiting with that new enchanted sword.
‘Does this place have a shady nook where I can meet an old friend in peace?’ Rumdoodle asked the proprietor, giving him the code phrase she’d been told back in Port Vermil when her contact there first booked her for this job.
The portly Mardin man behind the bar met her eyes for a second, peering over the top of his gold rimmed spectacles. He was Albert Westbrook, the proprietor here ever since his partner died and passed the Scale to him. Rumdoodle knew him decently well from prior visits, but with the magic disguise he clearly didn’t recognise her, so he just grunted affirmation and beckoned for her to follow him upstairs.
Without any attempt to make small talk, Albert led her up a couple flights of stairs then down a barely lit hallway to a closed door on the top floor. He handed her a candle and abandoned her to make her own way inside.
As his steps faded, Rumdoodle rapped thrice on the door with her knuckles.
‘Come in,’ a muffled voice spoke from inside.
She pulled the handle.
The little room she entered was very dark and refreshingly cool.
The rest of the wooden building seemed to have soaked up every bit of heat from the morning sun and practically turned into a sweat-lodge. Downstairs they’d propped every door open and most of the patrons were only keeping cool with the assistance of chilled cider drawn from the cellar.
This room by comparison was a surprisingly comfortable temperature. Each of its two windows were covered with blackout curtains. The only light came from Rumdoodle’s lit candle and the weak glow of a little blue ether-crystal sat on top of a slender frilled mechanical unit in the corner, that seemed to be pulling air through itself and cooling it in the process.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Garrel made crystal tech. Ether-crystal heaters were now relatively commonplace in the Dynasty, but a crystal powered machine that could cool air, that was a welcome novelty. Thank goodness for smugglers.
A burly young Rossak woman in a dark hood was perched on a chair beside a small table set against the wall, awaiting Rumdoodle’s arrival. She had her arms crossed and looked slightly bored.
The woman’s outfit was similar to that worn by the other contact Rumdoodle had met in Port Vermil, dark practical clothes with no distinguishing emblems or marks.
She still had very little idea of who these people were, so she decided to be on her best behaviour. No sense annoying a group of shadowy figures when they paid so well.
The woman nodded to Rumdoodle.
‘Close that door. You’ll let all the cool air out.’
Rumdoodle did so, then pulled up a chair to sit opposite and placed her candle on the table so it cast a small but warm light across their meeting.
‘Any particular reason why it’s so dark in here?’ she asked. The contact in Port Vermil had been exactly the same, always asking her to meet in dimly lit places and never outdoors.
‘It’s a precaution,’ the woman said, without elaborating on exactly what she meant.
Always cryptic with these guys. Strange habits. Dim lighting. Layers of secrecy. I've worked with criminals of all stripes, but this lot might take the cake for the most cautious.
Rumdoodle dropped her illusory disguise, opting to save the charge in her ether-crystals. She had them strapped against her skin under her clothes and partially coated to conceal their glow.
The Rossak woman made a small noise of appreciation as she saw Rumdoodle’s disguise fade away, revealing the cool green linen shirt and practical britches she wore underneath, along with her true Alfir caste.
‘I heard you were quite the illusionist, but I have to say it’s impressive to see in person.’
‘Why thank you.’ Rumdoodle inclined her head while she leant back and stretched her legs, getting comfortable. It was always nice to have her skills complemented, ‘It’s my speciality.’
'I can see that. I've rarely come across an illusory disguise so convincing, and I've seen my fair share,' The woman said, 'If you don't mind me asking, where did you get your training?'
'The Magisterium,' Rumdoodle said, 'Not officially, of course. My old boss pulled some favours and got me into... well, let's just call them night classes. Off the books.'
'Ah,' the woman nodded, 'That explains things a little. It's not common to find someone so magically accomplished in your line of work.'
'That's why you're paying me so much,' Rumdoodle said.
The woman laughed.
'Yes. I suppose it is.'
She reached under the table. The low light cast deep shadows across the Rossak's red and green dappled face as she looked down, drew a few items from a pack beneath her chair, and placed them on the tabletop for Rumdoodle to inspect.
First were a pair of tickets that would get her access to tonight’s events, one for a boat ride to the festival celebrations’ floating island out in the centre of Lake Allura, and another for admission to the exclusive auction being held by the Rattlestaff Playhouse inside one of the island’s many tents.
Beside those was an advance brochure for the auction with a list of items up for bidding. One was circled, #16 Upon an Eastern Cloud - by Bilberry Rattlestaff AFW 297, original handwritten draft manuscript with edits and notes. Estimated value: 2,000 - 2,500 GS.
Rumdoodle liked the occasional Rattlestaff play, mainly the comedies. She found the tragedies a tad too depressing; they were all about people losing hope and dying. As such, she’d never seen Upon an Eastern Cloud, it was supposed to be nothing but melodrama, naked people wailing at storms, and lovers being torn apart. No thanks.
‘I presume you were given a rough briefing by my colleague in Port Vermil?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes. A slightly convoluted setup, if I remember correctly.’
‘I suppose that’s true, will it be a problem for you?’
Rumdoodle shook her head, ‘Nah.’
‘Excellent. We appreciate your flexibility. Let me briefly recap so I’m certain we’re on the same page.’
‘Of course.’
The woman indicated the brochure, ‘We want you to attend the auction and watch to see who takes home the Rattlestaff Manuscript. They will be your target. Once the bidding is over and your target has collected the Manuscript, we want you to steal it from them by whatever means you see fit and deliver it to us, ideally discreetly and within no more than a few days.’
‘Can I ask some questions?’
‘If you feel it necessary.’
Rumdoodle looked down at the brochure, ‘Why not steal the Manuscript before the auction? Waiting only seems to make things more complicated.’
Inside her hood, the woman’s bright green eyes shone in the flickering light of the candle, showing telltale glimmers of the famous Rossak night vision. Those eyes scanned Rumdoodle’s face and she took a long moment before she answered, as if carefully considering her words.
‘We’d rather that the auction goes ahead uninterrupted. We wish to see who bids on the Manuscript. That information may prove illuminating for my people. Plus, we have complete faith in your ability to steal it after the fact.’
Rumdoodle still felt like she was missing the context she’d need for their motivations to make any sense, but it also wasn’t the strangest condition she’d ever been bound to during a job so she wasn’t going to make too much fuss.
‘On that subject,’ the woman continued, ‘I should inform you that there may be other interested parties who are quite keen to obtain the Manuscript.’
‘Motivated theatre lovers?’ Rumdoodle asked.
The woman smirked, ‘Something like that. You’d do best to move quickly after the auction, if you wish to avoid… conflict.’
Great, so I might be fending off a counter heist at the same time. Not quite the relaxed holiday job I was hoping for.
‘Ok. I have to ask, what makes this thing so important? I mean, I get that it’s rare and valuable, a nice collectors item, but this is an awful lot of plotting going on around one old playtext,’
‘That information is not a part of our transaction.’
‘Right…’
Rumdoodle watched the woman’s face for any giveaway but there was little to read.
Bit of a touchy subject I guess.
Rumdoodle moved on and checked a few extra details with the woman; projected attendance count for the auction, major players with money to spend, and the security arrangements. Her contact was well informed, and knew the answers to every one of Rumdoodle’s questions without having to check notes. It was nice to work with professionals, even if they were a bit creepy.
Compared to some of the jobs she’d pulled, tonight’s work seemed like a walk in the park on the face of it. But everything could change after the Manuscript left the auction tent. She’d need to adapt on her feet depending on who the target was and what they did next. Not an ideal setup in a profession that usually involved weeks of planning.
After an hour of going over details, it felt like they were done. Rumdoodle pocketed the two tickets and the auction brochure from the table.
‘I’ll head out and make my final preparations,’ she said, rising and picking up her candle, ‘How do you want me to contact you once the job is finished?’
‘You can leave a message for me with the bar downstairs,’ the woman said, ‘Use the same words, “A meeting with an old friend”. They’ll get word to me, and I’ll contact you.’
‘Alright then.’
Rumdoodle recast her illusory disguise, left The Silver Scale and made it back to her room in the Lost Love Lodge just as the clocks rang one in the afternoon.
She stowed her ether-crystals in their enchanted storage box, designed to stop them losing charge too swiftly, and watched from her window as the last tents and stalls were erected on the distant floating island where the long buildup to this year’s festival celebrations would finally play out.
As she looked out over the water, she could hardly focus on the task ahead. Her festival costume was laid out ready on the bed; her tools were beside it, ready to be stowed in secret pockets and strapped to limbs. She had things to do, final preparations to make, but she couldn't tear her eyes off the distant Lake. She imagined herself sinking into its depths, and a chill ran up her spine as she was gripped by a terrible sense of foreboding.
She leant on the window's edge for support as a wave of lightheadedness washed through her, and she realised she'd been hyperventilating.
Why am I so on edge?
Perhaps it was the lack of contextual information about the manuscript she'd be stealing, or the obsessive secrecy of the organisation who'd hired her. She didn't have nearly the same amount of preparation and contingencies in place for this job that she would usually require before she even considered a heist.
Any of those factors would be a good enough reason for the flutter of panic in her chest.
But it was none of those. This feeling was deeper, a profoundly primal fear, like the way animals always seemed to know when a storm was coming and would flee to shelter.
Suddenly, every instinct was telling her to cut and run.
She didn't know exactly what, but something was very wrong with this job.
[End of Chapter 25]