[Mature] Play with Fire

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 27th Roalis, 2719
The Black Dove, The Waterfront

Niccolette ran her brush through her hair, sitting with her back to the mirror. She traced her fingers over it, smoothed it, and kept brushing, in steady, strokes. She reached back and set the brush down on the vanity, and held, for a long moment, fingers tight in the fabric of Uzoji’s dressing gown.

It was day; morning, by the bright sun streaming through the blinds. Niccolette’s head ached, and her jaw too, from clenching it against a fit of weeping. She really, Niccolette thought tiredly, should know better by now. She let go of the soft dark cotton, took a deep breath, and turned to the mirror.

It was hard, at first, to focus on her reflection. Her eyes darted about, searching side to side, as if there was something to find. They settled on every interruption, every speck of dust, every ray of light. She waited herself out, slow and careful, until there was nowhere left to look, until, as if she could sneak up on herself, Niccolette caught the reflection of her own eyes.

She breathed, slowly and steadily, and watched herself. For a little while, it was all she could do to count her blinks, and so that was all she did. In time, Niccolette found that she could reach for her make up, the eye black and lip color, and paint them slowly on, a thin steady running of black around her eyes, and a soft pink for her lips. She touched the too-sharp lines of her cheekbones, and grimaced, but there was little she could do now.

Niccolette stood, and covered the mirror again before she went. She settled Uzoji’s robe back on its hook, and went to the closet, searching carefully through it. She found a pale brown dress she liked; it was looser than it should have been in the bodice and the waist, Niccolette thought regretfully, but fully buttoned over one of her thicker corsets, she felt it would pass.

Niccolette pulled on her boots last, laced them up, and picked up her reticule. She took the envelope the maid had brought her with the breakfast she had not touched, tucked it away, and took herself outside.

The sun stung at her eyes; Niccolette was not exactly sure when she had last gone out, and she thought perhaps it was for the best she not remember. She lifted her chin, steadied herself, and made her way from Quarter Fords, hailing a cab when she reached a main road. She climbed into the back, drew the blinds against her headache, and rattled steadily through the Rose.

The Black Dove was a disreputable mess at night; she had never been there in the morning, but Niccolette was not surprised to learn it was no different then. Niccolette could not have said, as she stepped inside, whether the drinking and brawling had continued from the night before, or started afresh with the dawn. She stepped neatly around two men grappling with one another with only the faintest glimmer of professional interest at the bleeding gash on one’s head, and found somewhere where she could look around, once her eyes adjusted to the gloomy, slightly smelly, distinctly sticky dark.

She was not in the least surprised to find Demkaih Alkrim looking as comfortable here as he had in her kitchen. Perhaps, Niccolette thought, with the vaguest sense of something like regret, more comfortable here.

The Bastian took a deep breath, and strode unerringly and unhesitatingly through the bar, skirt neatly lifted above the sticky floor in one small hand. She made no effort to go around two men crossing to the counter, and indeed she did not need to; they held back at the edge of her field, and neither said a word about it. 

Niccolette stopped next to the much taller Mugrobi, and looked up at him. She offered him no hellos, no inquiries, no well wishes. Instead, Niccolette set her reticule down, took out the letter from the envelope she had brought with her, and smoothed it down before him, her eyes as bright and sharp as her field. “What do you make of it?” She asked, and raised her eyebrows.

We have information about your husband’s death.
Come alone to Dread Isle tonight at 30 o’clock.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
The Black Dove | Early Morning

There was something about the Black Dove that made Demkaih feel at ease when he stayed over in the Rose. Sure, he could stay somewhere far more elegant, and far more suited to his stature, such as Widows Walk, but places like the Walk were a facade. They looked the part, but they were really just stage props, realistic from the front but entirely empty behind. Something about being unable to tell if you were talking to a crook or a kindred spirit made him uneasy. At least at the Dove, there was no pretense on what to expect. It was rowdy, unkempt, cheap and nasty. But at least it knew that, and accepted it. He didn’t bother attempting to sleep on the threadbare bug ridden mats, knowing full well that was invitation for disease, unrolling his own sleeping bag he’d brought with him.

Coming down into the tavern this morning, just before the sky began to color with the rising sun, the dark skinned Mugrobi had made his way to the beach to complete his morning prayer ritual to Hulali. He stood in the water, pants rolled up to his knees, hands cupping the small idol as he dipped them into the salty brine and muttered words of thanks and of worship. Since his topsy turvy meeting with Niccolette, and learning the truth of Uzoji’s death, Demkaih had been praying for guidance and fair weather.

He would provide answers, if His children asked.

Returning to the tavern as the pinks of sunrise snuck up on the clouded sky, the tall man settled into a seat at the bar, his field nowhere near as imposing as the two circular blades that rested against his hips. Sipping the large, black mug of kofi he’d collected on the way back, Demkaih breathed in the earthy aroma as the patrons went about their shenanigans. His mind wandered, considering his inventory and the upcoming season. Fall was coming, which mean the crops would start to slow down. Stock had been well reserved fortunately, but the lovage hadn’t faired well in the market this year. He would send word to Liykos to turn over the soil and set up the seeds for Gior’s golden rod. Since striking conversations about trade for their ever so delicate silks in return for the gold colored dye, the discussions with Giorite had abruptly stopped. They’d refused any scry contact, and had gone so far as to deny his return visit. Rumours from his contacts in Omn-Die suggested that something significant was happening in the country, though no one knew precisely what it was.

Perhaps he could ply the Da Huane family with a second offer. The dyes and spices were worth the loss in profit, for the substantial gain he could get in the worm-silk. So fine, so soft, it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Hopefully they could strike a—

A familiar aura brushed against him, and all thoughts of silk and trade flittered from his mind.

Not turning to watch the younger Bastian approach, he took a small drink of the steaming kofi, holding it to his mouth as her lithe form appeared beside him. She didn’t greet him, instead smoothing a piece of parchment onto the bartop before him, allowing the blue eyed entrepreneur time to read the words contained there.

We have information about your husband’s death.
Come alone to Dread Isle tonight at 30 o’clock.

Ask, and you shall receive.

Demkaih lowered his mug slowly, placing it down so he could take a moment to read the note again, carefully. Finally, he looked at Niccolette.

“I make this out to be bait. A lure, to get you out to that derelict place on your own.” He said in a deep rumble, unperturbed by the scuffle occurring in the middle of the room, though his vision didn’t miss the curious side glances by a couple of onlookers. Shady places attracted shady folk. Turning slightly, he leaned an elbow on the bar, tapping the note with one thick finger.

“But, this is also a lead. They could be telling the truth, about Uzoji. It warrants looking, carefully though.” Demkaih said the last words as though he was implying that he suspected Niccolette's version of looking could end up being violent and vengeful. Collecting his kofi, the Mugrobi narrowed his eyes.

“What do you make of it?” He countered, taking a sip and watching her over the rim, turning ever so slightly so he could keep the two onlookers within his peripheral vision. They might not be anything.

But then, they could be something.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 27th Roalis, 2719
The Black Dove, The Waterfront

Demkaih took his time, finishing his sip of kofi, and turning to look at the note, reading it carefully. Niccolette shifted, sharp and impatient. She could smell the kofi, she realized, the bitter scent wafting through the air above the thick reek of the Dove. It woke something in her, and her stomach growled, softly. Niccolette was not sure when last she had eaten; she could not recall. Yesterday - surely she must have - she could not be sure. She was suddenly hungry, with an ache that thrummed through her, startlingly visceral.

The Bastian exhaled, carefully, and pushed the feeling away, focused and breathed through the lightness in her head, until she was clear once more. She lowered her gaze back to the note, wondering what he was still reading in it. She looked up at Demkaih when he turned to her, and tilted her head faintly to the side, listening to him. Bait, he said, and she looked down at the note once more, frowning lightly.

He asked her what she made of it, and Niccolette lifted her gaze back up to his face. She flexed her field, sudden and bright, and the two humans who had lingered found somewhere else to be. There was a neat space left around them; in the busy, swirling morning life of the Black Dove, Niccolette’s field left a hole. She did not dampen it, not in the least, and it was sharp in the air, sharp enough to cut.

What did she think? Niccolette had not thought, not at first. She had read the letter and she had felt - simple, burning anger, crisp and clean. It had kindled bright in her chest, and for the first time in days she had had the strength to rise from her bed. Anger filled her; it pumped through her veins, and flooded them with heat. It swept up her aching pain and transformed it, called it kindling.

“I think it is a trap,” Niccolette said, and she smiled. It was a slow smile, and a little vicious, and she did not trouble to dampen it. “I intend to spring it.”

She had not looked away from Demkaih before, and she did not now. “If nothing else,” Niccolette said, “I shall learn who wished me harm.” She picked the letter back up, and folded it again, and slid it away. “And they shall learn something too.” Niccolette promised, and there was a faint lingering echo of that smile on her lips, a brief subtle pulsing flutter in her field, there and then gone.

Conquest, Nicccolette thought. It burned bright through her. Conquest. Let them think they could trap her; let them see what she would do when cornered. Let them learn what it was they had meant to trap; let them never try such a thing again. Conquest demanded no less of her, and Niccolette had always given it all it asked, and unhesitatingly.

Even if they had nothing to tell her, she could not let this stand unchallenged; she could not decline the duel they had offered. No rules, Niccolette thought, with a sudden rush of heat through her. No rules at all.

Good.

Niccolette looked up at Demkaih, her gaze sweeping over the blades at his hips, back up to the serious look on his face. “Come with me,” she said, quietly. There was no question in the words, but there was one on her face - uncertainty, or perhaps hesitation. She did not say anything else; she did not beg or explain or excuse. She made her offer, and she left it there between them, and she held herself utterly still and indectal, waiting for his response.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
The Black Dove | Early Morning

Demkaih watched her face as she contemplated his words, the frown that formed, as though she’d not taken a moment to consider the letter could indeed be bait for her own demise. He knew her enough by now to know she wasn’t stupid, far from it, but she was passionate and focused and angry. Anger could indeed blind one to the dangers around them.

Her field flexed, as vibrantly bright and oppressively powerful as ever, and the two loiters suddenly seemed to find something much more interesting to look at. The wick’s jaw tensed as he suppressed a smirk. Frankly, he wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that power either.

“I think it is a trap, and I intend to spring it.”

The Bastian’s smile was infectious, full of malicious intent and warranted smugness. The lioness in the shadows, eyes glinting with predatory instinct. Demkaih finished his sip, lowering the mug, his eyes still locked with hers.

“I am sure they will learn something indeed.” He said quietly, watching the lithe creature take back her letter, gaze sweeping over his person without innuendo. Demkaih looked at her, considering the younger woman for a moment. He could envision her, so long ago it seemed, with her love in her eyes and the smile on her face for Uzoji. The rain drenching her hair and it clinging to her features, Uzoji’s eyes seeing nothing else but the woman he’d chosen to take. The woman he’d chosen over his family and his race.

Come with me.

It was less of a question than it was an order, though her eyes spoke differently, allowed him a choice. She wasn’t begging, she wasn’t demanding. She was offering him the chance he’d asked of her those days ago. The chance to explore with her, the rabbit hole of this Drain and this abomination on Hulali’s plans. Straightening, Demkaih looked away from her and lifted his cup to empty the last of the black bitter liquid, placing it down again with a short nod to the keep. He placed both of his large, calloused hands on the bartop and rose from his seat, extending to his full height to practically tower of the galdor. Rolling up the sleeves of his loose fitted ochre shirt and throwing a couple of coins on the wood from his pocket, the blue eyed entrepreneur finally looked back at Niccolette.

“We will need a boat, something small. And I would like to change into something a little more suited to the hour of the day. The letter said to come alone, but in the dark, I have an advantage. They will not see me, not until I want them to.” He said quietly, accepting her request without saying as much.

“Let us discuss further, away from this den of thieves.” Demkaih suggested, ready and willing to help the petite creature, but wanting to plan their approach before taking the plunge. They needed to be smart about this. Dead men told no tales, after all.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 27th Roalis, 2719
The Waterfront

Niccolette understood that Demkaih was making her wait. She did not fidget, or squirm; she stood next to his stool in the midst of the bar, and she watched him, and she waited. She did not say another word; she did not so much as sigh. She waited as he picked up his cup and drank the last of his kofi; she waited, her chin lifting to follow him with her gaze, as he rose to tower over her, rolling up his sleeves and tossing a few coins on the counter.

He looked back at her, and Niccolette nodded. She pushed her hair back off her forehead, and glanced around. He was large, Demkaih; in the bar, standing, he stood out like a sore thumb, as dark as the kofi he had drank, with his heavy knives and bright shirt. Somehow Niccolette did not doubt him; she knew better than to think a Mugrobi like Demkaih would tell such a lie, and, too, she could picture it only too easily. No, Niccolette thought; they would not see him. By the time they did, it would be too late.

“Follow me,” Niccolette said. She led Demkaih through the bar; she was of average height for a galdor, but slender, and small amidst the crowd of the Rose. She could have slipped through, her passage unremarked. She did not bother; she walked as if she took up all the space of her field, and went through the crowd with the same confidence that those she passed would part for her – and they did, without so much as a second look. One hand held her skirt up just off of the sticky floor.

Outside, Niccolette glanced around, a faint frown wrinkling her brow. Her stomach grumbled, and she set a hand on it, irritated. Without conscious thought, her hand slipped to the side, and settled against the scar that lay there; she could not feel it through the brown dress and the corset, but she knew the contours of it; she could lay her hand against her husband’s without the need to look. Niccolette glanced back at Demkaih over her shoulder. “We shall eat,” she announced. “I hope you know better than to take food at this… warren,” she made a little face at the entrance of the Black Dove.

Niccolette took a deep breath, lowered her hand, and started to walk. She went at a quick pace, although with Demkaih’s height he might not find it difficult; she walked through the streets of the Rose with her chin raised and her field undampened. She led Demkaih this way and that, until they ducked into an alley off the wharf, and from there through an unassuming door.

Familiar smells filled the air, the spicy aroma of Muluku Islands cuisine. There was a man at the door, an Anaxi; he unfolded himself off of a narrow stool, looking down at Niccolette, and then nodded and waved her through. Niccolette scarcely troubled to look at him. She made her way deeper into the restaurant; there were small closed-off booths on either side of the aisle, and Niccolette chose one and stepped inside, perching delicately on a stool at the edge of a wide table.

There were plenty who came from the islands for business under Hawke’s eye; there were places where they might go for privacy. Niccolette knew them well, these years past.

The curtain ruffled a few moments later, and an Anaxi wick, scrawy and a full head shorter than Demkaih, came and lay plates on the table. He poured them each a cup of kofi, and returned a few moments later with a platter of idari, steamed savory cakes made of rice and lentil batter, popular on the islands, with little dishes of thick tomato, coconut and mint sauces. A moment later, and he returned again with bowls of tam’oqap, thin tamarind soup with lentils and tomatoes floating on the surface amidst strands of green.

Niccolette took an idari without saying anything, settling it bare-handed on her plate. She ripped off a small piece, and set it down; she leaned back, wiped her hands clean without having taking a bite, and took the kofi instead, cradling it in her hands. She watched Demkaih across the table, still and silent; there was no escape from the press of her field in the small room, but she did not force it on him. If anything, it was softer and gentler than he might have felt – not dampened, not quite, but relaxed, somehow.

“We take a boat,” Niccolette said, frowning. “We shall be able to dock quietly, I think, in the night. There is not so much light around the island,” her right hand had settled against her side once more, comfortably. The fingers of her left tapped softly against the cup of kofi. She took a small sip, and set the cup back down.

“No,” Niccolette said, after a moment. “Better, I think, we arrive separately,” she raised her eyebrows at Demkaih. “You, quietly. I will come with a light, and someone to row me,” she pressed her lips together, and shrugged. “Let them see me approach. If they wish me to shoot me from a distance, there will anyway be little I can do,” she looked away then, setting the cup down, and her right hand tightened faintly against her side.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

27th Roalis, 2719
The Black Dove | Early Morning

He followed her, the lithe creature slinking between the warm bodies in the bar, making a path of his own through them with an unreadable expression and sharp knives. They were unchallenged, she with a field that could part the sea, and he with his height, as they left the unkempt place to stand for a moment in the open. The sun was up now, bearing down cheerfully on the township of the harbour as though it could wash away all the sickness that grew in the nooks and crannies. On the outside, Silas kept a pretty facade. The Rose, at first glace, was a beautiful maiden just coming into her own. But underneath her skirts, there was pox and a tumbles legs. Full of murder and pillage and mayhem.

Demkaih looked down at her, and chuckled.

“Indeed, I only risk the kofi. Too hot and overbrewed.” He said quietly, before keeping pace with the lioness as she stalked her territory. They wove through the streets and alleyways, loosing the older man in the maze of the Rose. Thul’Ka, he could navigate with his eyes shut, but Old Rose was not as familiar on foot. He spent most of his time in the docks, or in the tavern. Still, he didn’t complain. It was good to have purpose, after the knowledge of Uzoji’s true demise. He had been restless, angry, lost. Prayers to Hulali had eased his heart a little, but inaction bred discontent. Truthfully the man didnt realise how badly he wanted this.

No, needed this.

They entered a doorway, and the smells of Muluku filled his senses like an old friend. He could pick them, each specific spice and herb, should be want to. Mentally, he cataloged them, towering over the Anaxi as he looked down at Niccolette before they pressed on. The restaurant was busy, and at the same time not, like everyone there was on business rather then pleasure. Demkaih was reminded of the dsoh houses in Hox, where the wealthy businessmen did their most intimate dealings over noodles and strong drink. The Bastian picked their booth, and the taller Mugrobi ducked his head to join her inside, settling on the stool to lace his hands together and rest them on the table. It didn’t take long for service, and by the looks they were serving a generic fare to all—unless Nicco was a regular. Demkaih inhaled deeply, appreciative of familiar cuisine, picking up an idari and breaking it in two. He took a swipe at the mint sauce, biting into the morsel and picking the soup up in the other large hand, ignoring the heat from the bowl and taking a deep sip of the slightly sour broth.

“Surely there is a spell you can upkeep, to shield yourself should they be that stupid? Unless you expect trouble, and wish to save your strength.” The man said quietly, his field swamped comfortably by her own, not ashamed to allow her stronger aura to overtake the booth. Putting down the bowl, he dipped the second half of the cake into the mint—truly it was a gloriously understated flavor—and consumed the piece in one mouthful. Picking up the kofi, he sipped at it, appreciating the subtle bitterness of the far more well brewed cup. Lowering it to the table, he nodded.

“I too feel this is the better approach. You come alone, as they intended, and I will navigate around the coast in the darkness. There are small reefs, that I understand, along the right. If I take that path, carefully, I can most likely avoid any unpleasant encounters.” He raised his own brow, rubbing a hand over his shaved head and sucking on his teeth thoughtfully.

“If your light is bright enough, it will blind them further to the darkness around them.” He nodded, as though they had agreed to this idea already, picking up his kofi again and raising his mug to her.

“So, we part from here this morn, and if Hulali blesses our plan, we shall meet again on the island. I will keep hidden, though close enough to act should it be needed. We must talk to them, Niccolette, have them brag about their knowledge. I hope, in my heart, this is news for you. About Uzoji. But if it is a trap,” Demkaih brought the mug to his lips, pausing for a moment.

“One must stay alive.” He said simply, before taking another drink, clearly aware of Niccolette’s simmering rage and how devastating it could be should she release it.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 27th Roalis, 2719
Ule'tsiye, Off the Waterfront

Niccolette considered the question; her right hand was still tucked around her side, and her left fingers settled against the cup, holding firmly. Her lips pursed, faintly. There were spells, naturally, to thicken one’s skin against the dangers of sharp knives and swords, mostly from wars fought centuries ago. There were spells, too, to turn oneself or another caster to stone, to keep them safe; but that would do her little good.

The challenge, Niccolette thought, would be the upkeep. She took another sip of the fragrant kofi. There were a few spells she knew – shorter and sharper, meant for a moment of defense rather than a sustained one. It was rarely worth it to cast such a spell on oneself, rather than simply shooting the assailant; and, too, if there was time for those spells, there was time for a more aggressive sort of defense, the sort Niccolette rather favored.

“Perhaps,” Niccolette said, thoughtfully. Gharabarghi was well known for his wartime spells; she had a grimoire of his, she thought, in her study, which she had only begun to skim. Whatever he had invented would not be made for use against guns, naturally, but it might be close enough, or easy enough to temper. She would open it, Niccolette thought, slowly. She could not remember, now, why she had not brought it with her to the island last fall, when she had been reading it.

Niccolette shrugged, and looked away. She set the kofi down, and eased her right hand away from her side. She looked back at Demkaih when he began to speak, and smiled, faintly. A faint pulse ran through her field as his toast, a bright shiver of energy that sharpened in the air around her.

Niccolette understood the risks; she had, she thought, since the first moment of the note. She looked at Demkaih across the table; she wondered if she could trust him. She wondered if he would come, in the end; if he would be there, waiting, in the dark. She might never know, Niccolette thought, facing it squarely, particularly if he did not come.

And if he did not? Niccolette drew herself up, slowly, the long straight line of her back leading to the small stool. Her ankles crossed, delicately, and she rested the toes of one foot against a bit of wood connecting the legs. If he did not, Niccolette thought, she would have herself to call upon, and the mona too. It would be enough, Niccolette thought, fiercely; it had to be. There was bloody vengeance still to be reaped, before the end; she did not mean to die. Not yet.

Niccolette pursed her lips at Demkaih’s suggestion that she leave one of her assailants alive, should a trap be sprung. She picked up the piece of idari that she had left behind early; she dipped it in the coconut, and ate it in a small, neat bite. She ripped off another bite of idari, dragged it through the tomato, and ate it too, considering.

The curtain brushed open; the same wick came in, and set down another small plate, with two tsoq’ud sitting on it, small savory fritters fried, studded with peppercorns and curry leaves, little bits of green pressed against the exterior.

Niccolette wiped her fingers, and took one of the fritters; she ripped off a small piece, showing the spongy interior; she dipped it in the tam’oqap, and ate it, carefully. She wiped her fingers clean once more, and looked at Demkaih. She smiled, then, although there was nothing pleasant about it; it was a showing of small, well-kept white teeth, her incisors sharp.

“One,” Niccolette agreed, and her smile did not falter.