The Fourth looked around. Trouble? Only just met her, he thought, gaze alighting on the Lady Lark as she sang her song. The Inkspider were overly fond of smoke and mystery, or so he had come to believe over the course of their service. Good information was worth its weight in gold, and their relationship with the First and Last was practically symbiotic in that regard.

'That he does,' replied Fourth, a knowing look in his eye. Stitches wounds, too. For the right price. But then she likely knew that already.

Soft laughter warmed the space between blade and bard. The mercenary shook his head. 'Not everyone wears the limelight so blithely as you, Anira,' he said, placing his back to the bar, arms folded. When she spoke of well-informed acquaintances, he nearly smiled. 'Figured as much.'

Nobody, be they lord or layperson, ended up in a place like The Last Drop by accident. That Anira had booked a room in such an establishment came as no surprise. But he was curious.

'Fourth,' he corrected Anira politely, casting a glance over his shoulder at the barman, only somewhat perturbed by the way she had revealed his identity so carelessly. 'I'll have what the Lady's having,' he told the orkin, turning back to watch the room. 'Please, do try to avoid using my name, Little Lark.' Number. Whatever.

'Make something up if you have to. You're a bard, should come as second-nature to you.'
 
Corrected. Directed.

Anira let out a long, put-upon sigh, the kind perfected by artists, divas, and people who absolutely refused to be managed. Creatives hated nothing more than being corrected in public, Anira was no different. She gave him a look that was all long lashes of disbelief.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the barman, then back to The Fourth. Annoyance lived only in the way her fingers tapped once against her cup. “Mm,” she hummed lightly. “Noted.” Her gaze traveled him once more. She didn’t get it. She never would. To her, a name was a hook. Fame was a tool, just like fear. "You look like a Johannes."

“I will never understand this reverence of hush-hush," Which might be rich coming from the daughter of one of the most accomplished con artists ever. "You belong to a renowned fraternity of blades. Whispered about. Feared in alleyways." She tipped her cup toward him, eyes glinting. “You could use that. A little reputation goes a long way."

A pause. A sip of wine. “But fine, keep your secrets then, Johannes.” Anira turned on her heel, leaned an elbow onto the bar like she owned the place. “Darling,” she said to the barkeep. “I’d very much like a word with Nenne.”
 
"You look like a Johannes."

'So I've been told.' Her annoyance did not faze him, anymore than the quiet disbelief in her eyes. A reputation was all well and good until someone wielded it against you. The Hollow Man was proof enough of that. 'A fraternity of blades, huh?' The Fourth shook his head once more. Disappointed. 'I understand now why it is you wish to confer with the Spider.' Rarely did the mercenary sip from the cup of pettiness. He found wine to be much sweeter.

The barman grunted at Anira's request, eyes darting to a young half-elf sat in the corner.

A tilt of the head, and the youngster was on his feet. 'Wait a moment,' said the orkin, voice like granite. 'Someone'll come for you shortly.' The Fourth nodded, head down as the man shuffled off. 'Well, well, well. Seems your reputation really does precede you,' smiled the blade, sharp as drawn steel, but not nearly so cruel.

'Done biz with this Nenne before?' He asked, curious, and cautious. 'Figured out what the price will be?'
 
A fraternity of blades, the way that had landed, as if she’d named them a butcher’s guild.

“If,” the bard said at last, “you already know where Lady Selani is… now would be the most charming time to mention it.” A pause, tight as a held breath. If he knew where Lady Selani was, now would indeed be the moment to mention it. “It would save us all a great deal of walking...” Anira waited for it. Nothing came. Then the orkin’s grunt drew her attention, and she followed his glance just in time to see the half-elf rise.

When "Johannes" asked about Nenne, she smiled. “We’ve crossed paths..." Before he could press further, soft padding footsteps approached. A chimpanzee, neatly wearing a tailored blue waistcoat and trousers, paused before them and tilted its head. Anira blinked once. The chimp gestured with one long finger, beckoning them to follow.

“Oh. Of course, Calki” she said warmly. The bard paused just as the chimp disappeared through the side door.

The price.

She turned back to The Fourth, her expression thoughtful rather than coy for once. Anira let out a soft, almost musical hum. “Ah. Yes. That...” She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as though sharing gossip rather than strategy. “They already know who you are, my fault." A light tap of her finger against his chest. “And the fact that one of the Hungry Eight is here at all? The Inkspider do love to collect useful people.” They would ask for him. A favor. A future debt.

“So perhaps...” The Minstrel went on, “this is the moment where you don't follow me, but you do what you do best?"
 
The Fourth grunted. 'Collect. Coerce.' The Inkspider wouldn't bury him in debt, maybe, but they would do little to keep him from drowning in it. Whatever price they asked for in exchange for their services would be steep, and the Fourth wasn't sure whether or not he would be able to repay it. And unsure is as good as fucked in this business, he grimaced, meeting the bardess's baby blue eyes.

A small smile creased his lips as their thoughts intertwined.

'And what might that be?' Pushing off from the bar, the mercenary rolled his shoulders, allowing his gaze to play across the room before returning to Anira. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'You don't have to answer that. Go, work your magic.' Turning, the Fourth's smile curdled as he watched Calki wander off.

'Any other time and I might have found the sight of a chimp in a waistcoat amusing,' he spoke softly, voice lowered, posture relaxed. 'What you said... about saving us all a great deal of walking?' Slowly, as if by accident, the blade closed on the bard.

'I don't know where Mistress Selani is now,' he whispered, 'but I know where she was headed.'

Placing a guiding hand behind her back, the Fourth encouraged Anira to walk in front, slipping into her shadow like a ghost. Legend held he was one; might as well live up to it. 'Southern Portside, near the Gallowhouse. It's where the rich go to play with the poor. I lost the trail there.'

Drawing to a halt, the Fourth leant against the nearest doorpost, arms folded against his chest.

'Good luck in there,' he smiled, though it appeared more like a frown. 'I'll be nearby if you need me.'
 
“Collect, coerce?” she echoed, tilting her head. “How grim you make it sound. I prefer to think of it as… gather and encourage.” A soft laugh followed, bright as a plucked string. The Inkspider doesn’t twist arms. They offered ...alternatives. People simply choose the one that hurts least. He would be surprised how often that feels like kindness. Her gaze lingered on him, the most sincere she'd been all day.

'And what might that be?'

“What you did at House Mandamor!” she replied quickly, smiling up at him. As his hand settled on her back, she even leaned back into his palm as they walked. “Oh, good,” she said lightly. Gallowhouse. Where the rich go to play with the poor. “I was beginning to worry this search might turn out to be almost pleasant.”

The passage beyond opened into a garden, lanterns hanging from carved arches, scent from hibiscus and night-blooming jasmine heavy in the air. Water murmured everywhere, channels cut through the garden like veins. Mango trees leaned over tiled paths. Lotus flowers floated in a shallow pond. Anira slowed when she spotted it. In the pond, half-hidden among lily pads, a big octopus, intelligent eyes followed their movement. Its skin shifted and faded in waves, pearl white to indigo to oil-slick green to a deep wine purple that rippled into black. “Behave, you inky bastard,” the minstrel murmured.

Beyond the pool, beneath a canopy of silk and carved teak, sat Nenne. Calki halted before the low pavilion. The old woman sat amid cushions and hanging bells, eyes clouded. The chimp moved to Nenne's side at once.

“Evening, Nenne.” the bard greeted the old blind woman, “I see you’ve contained that octopus finaly.” A corner of Nenne’s mouth twitched. “So… have you seen my father?” Nenne’s fingers twitched. “Elias has not been here in months.” Anira blinked. “And you’d know if he’d been sneaking about, I take it?” Nenne sighed, insulted by the question. Nenne’s blind eyes were turned toward the bard, voice low, calm in a dangerous way. “Really, Lady Lark… did you come here to ask questions you already know the answers to? About your father?”

The bardess twirled a blodne strand of hair around a finger. “No, Spider, I’m looking for Lady Selani. The trail went cold at the Gallowhouse, and here I am.” The old Inkspider clicked her tongue. “And can you pay?” Anira let out a dramatic sigh and pressed her hand over her chest as if she were wounded.

“Price!? You really want to talk about price!? You owe me! Remember your nephew and that dinner?!"
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom