[Closed] With Cat-Like Tread

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian Street
The Seventh of Loshis, the Small Hours

Bailey Sneed

T

his is not the house he is looking for. No walnut and macadamia trees outside the door, no yellow trim, no tide of discreet gentlemen callers toing and froing. That house is his target. If only he can find the damned place. Mr Shrike narrowed it down to four houses, by his own lights he has it down to two. A fine house on Carnelian Street, and a desirable residence down on the Way of the Orangeries. Neither quite match the description of the Red Madame’s haunt. All the better. He does not doubt the description Mr Shrike had given, did not doubt the recollections of Ms Weaver. Houses change. Tastes change. And three years is an eternity in fashion and design. Nothing stays the same, not for long.

No, this house is something altogether more precious. A perfect perch, shadowy eaves, a fine old ivy plant on the north side, a proper thief’s ladder, and a small attic window with a flimsy lock. An observation post. Perfect for watching the two houses without being seen. Fortune had smiled on him. The house was occupied by only one scholarly gent and his aesthetic servant. Fortune had pissed on him. He had met the servant before. In a tavern north of the river. Doily. The world’s politest man.

Well, nothing’s perfect.

He keeps to the attic and the eaves, keeps to his observations. Mostly. A missing bottle of brandy or two, a lifted pair of cufflinks, and a small elegant paperweight didn’t signify. He needs to keep in fine form. Needs to stay on the game. Once he finds the house, the haunt of the Red Madame, he’ll have to slip inside. He hopes the gents who frequent the place like lively girls. A few forced cries of feigned delight can cover a world of quiet footfalls.

The house on Carnelian Street, a fine, elegant pile standing in its own grounds, nearly matched the description. A pair of fine old walnuts, black ones, outside. Their limbs spreading out and giving shadows to the street. Well done those trees. It’s always nice to have friends about. No macadamia trees though. Whatever the hell they were when they were at home. Damned foreign trees. So, no macadamias, but a couple of new tulip trees, probably no more than a year old, grew outside the house. The macadamias had probably failed to thrive. No backbone, these delicate tropical trees. No taste for city life.

The house on Carnelian Street did not have yellow trim, leastways not any more. A little knife work by the shade of the obliging walnuts had revealed that beneath the current white trim, so fresh and bright, there had been a marigold-yellow paint. Hideous stuff. So, one certainty in the description and two likely. Trees die, houses get painted. Nothing strange about either.

One the Way of the Orangeries, on which not a single orange grows, the house is perhaps a little closer to the mark. At least at first blush. Still, he has his doubts. Quiet street, walnut trees outside, yellow trim. A terraced house, one of many in a long stately line. Fashionable, yes, but less discreet. Shared walls, no matter their thickness, still transmit sound. And a brothel, however slathered with fine veneer, is a damned noisy place.

The night of the sixth, or the early hours of the seventh and the rain in driving hard. The shelter of the eaves is cold comfort. The attic will serve better. There’s nothing he can see out in the streets tonight. Rain’s the burglar’s foe, fog’s his ally. Like shadows. No fog nor anything like the hope of it. Just rain, more rain, and then some torrential rain. If he’s lucky, it will only shower tomorrow.

Cold, wet, and stiff from hours perched like a damned gargoyle, he pries the attic window open and slips into the musty gloom beyond. Dust tickles his nose and sticks to his wet clothes. A fine grey coating. No sense in slinking off home, not through half of Uptown and up to Lesser Larch Street. He curses. He’ll have to make a nest here, among the old trunks and the inevitable taxidermy beasts. What possessed rich tossers to collect these things and then squirrel them away? He’s at least on speaking terms with the pale gazelle head hanging on the south wall. He looks like a Jarvis. Jarvis ain’t too bad, as far as taxidermy goes. A raffish, sly sort. A gazelle who knows his business. Whatever business that is, old Jarvis ain’t telling.

No easy way to lift the old fellow. Probably covered in arsenic preservatives and gods know how many spiders. A nice piece, but not worth the time to pinch. Sorry Jarvis.

Hours drag on. The night closes and the morning draws in. Dark still. Doily and his master are likely still abed. Gollies, as a rule, sleep late. Mr Shrike doesn’t seem to sleep at all. The scholar ain’t anything like Mr Shrike. The scholar seems a comfortable man. An easy-going sort. Doily’s well kitted out, so the scholar’s likely a reasonable master. All to the good. A fine, quiet, complacent house. Just the sort of place that makes it easy to nip down to the larder for a bit of cheese, some stale bread, and the dregs of a bottle of wine. The scholar keeps a good cellar. Very passable.

He is still drying out and his stomach is growling. A swift dash down the attic ladder, barefoot, then on to the kitchen. It is no great way. And past the library. All manner of fine small items to lift. A thief has to keep in practice, after all.

He slides down the ladder in utter silence, and pads along the carpeted corridors raising no more noise than a diffident and retiring cat. Swift and quiet he goes, pausing from time to time to admire an objet d’art upon a civilized plinth, or a portrait of some glowering ancestor. Why do all golly ancestors look dispeptic? Must be a style. A damned silly one.

Light leaking from under the library door. Shit. Someone is abroad. Worse, the drying dust is rising from his clothes, tickling about his nostrils. For a moment he thinks he can avoid the inevitable. No luck. Fortune pisses on his yet again.

The sneeze, when it comes, is not loud. It is loud enough.

[Yazad]

Vienda - Carnelian Street

7th of Loshis, 2720; The Small Hours

T he sound of rain, and the calm of silence.

It made little sense for the two to exist together, yet they did. The quietness of a newborn day, drizzled in Loshis weather, was amplified tenfold when one sat alone in a house of only him and another. The rain, gently tapping against the glass of windows to create the haze that rain often does, was certainly out there, but not in here. Merely a backdrop to the silence; there and yet at the same time, not.

His time in Vienda was not terrible, really. Yazad found the city a step above The Stacks, yet still lingering behind the best that Bastia has to offer in terms of aesthetics. The mishap he had endured a few days prior when he was forced to take shelter from a merciless downpour, was hardly a pleasant experience at the time. But right now, with the passive seated comfortably -and most importantly, warmly- upon a cushioned chair--it was a rather amusing memory. People were met, names were exchanged, yet all in the fashion done while knowing that there will not be a second meeting. Politeness, and camaraderie in a somewhat difficult circumstance.

Blue-tinted darkness met Yazad’s pensive gaze when he looked out of the window, a book nestling in his hands. A worn book showing the visible signs of age, what with the darkening pages and the slightly scrapped cover. There was a stain of something oily somewhere within the pages--the result of a minor spilling accident when he was fourteen. He still did not have the heart to toss it away or replace it with a newer edition, for this was the first cookery book that he had ever gotten. And what was he if not a sentimental man?

Sophronios will surely not wake anytime soon. If Yazad knew the man well - and he did- then he was more than certain that the galdor visited his bed only a few hours prior to dawn. Most likely up all night reading something about...beans...or daisies...or whatever his latest obsession is. It had been a long time ago ever since Yazad decided to stop trying to understand what his master did.

Legs tucked beneath his body and a steaming mug of hot cocoa in hand. What more can a man want to start a day? Except for a bed of flowers just outside the window, a scented candle on the table by him, and perhaps a good hug. Alas, the hot cocoa will have to do for now. Another sip, another thought left to fade away.

Slender fingers continued to gently flip through the pages. The passive was looking for candidates for the day’s menu. Certainly, the master did not seem to mind the dishes he often made, and if he did then he was not saying it, but Yazad wanted a different set of dishes for the vacation, even if only to make sure that the galdor in his care is properly nourished. His cookery book should be a source of inspiration. He had time, and with Sophronios’ sleeping habits he is not likely to need breakfast for more than one.

Or so he thought.

A single sneeze, partially muffled by the door, reached Yazad’s ears, prompting him to place the mug that he had been sipping from down and sit up straight from his nearly huddled position. Well, this is unusual. With the exception of that one time the galdor had come down with a particularly bad fever, Sophronios was not often in the habit of waking up before the sun is at least halfway across the sky. The book was gently closed, and Yazad, like an unfurling feline, stretched briefly before his feet touched the carpeted floor. This was not their permanent place of residence, and by Hurte would he have loathed if it were. He would like to live in a house with more than two pitifully small vases for decoration, and there was something not quite right with the carpets. It was probably the pattern. Too small, too bland to look at. His cookery book was placed on the table as Yazad made his way to open the door and hopefully not be met with a sickly scholar.

In his desire for comfort, coupled with his assumption that he would have the house for himself for most of the day, the man chose to remain dressed in his pristine white nightgown and matching stockings. He liked the clocks on this one: they were elegant and detailed, yet not too overwhelming to the point of being gaudy. That was the way he liked most things--there, yet not too much there.

"This is very much unlike you, sir." The passive commented casually, his hand pushing the smooth panel of wood open. The poorly-lit corridor housed a form that was hunched slightly, which makes perfect sense since he had just heard Sophronios sneeze.

Only that Sophronios form to have changed faces during his sleep.

Even in dim lighting, it took mere seconds for the passive to register the wrong shape of the nose, the additionally tousled hair, and the faint glint of eyes that were a little too big to be the galdor’s. The realization came eventually, though slowed down by the sheer rudeness of it all. The shock that coursed through his body crippled Yazad’s movement, and instead of a fearful scream, the man only managed a hewn yelp. Instinctively, his hands flew up to cover the passives mouth while he, wide-eyed, quickly took a few steps back. “You are not the--!" Yazad managed to gasp, his words breathlessly tumbling out of his lips before trepidation silenced him. This was not Sophronios, so who could it possibly be?

Someone he knows, apparently. Someone whom he had met not too long ago with the memory still fresh in his mind.

Ah--

“You--from the tavern--"

With Cat-Like Tread

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian
The Seventh of Loshis, the Small Hours

N

owhere to go, nowhere to turn. Bloody corridors. This one is especially bare, one meagre plinth is all he can hope to slip behind. No sense in trying to look artistic. He is wearing far too many clothes and of the wrong type. His impression of ‘Young Lady Adjusting Her Sandal While Starkers’ is woeful. Likely not the sort of art the scholar would keep about. At least not in a corridor liberally supplied with those sour-faced ancestors looking on with timeless disapproval. A mad dash is out of the question. Doily has heard the sneeze. Fantastic. Marvelous. To be betrayed by his own personal nose. That had never occurred to him as his invitation to enjoy Their Majesties' Hospitality, or to the gallows. He looks terrible in a necktie. He has never learned how to dance.

Alright, options. First and foremost, plan your escape. Good advice, and he has his route. A run pell-mell down the corridor, up the ladder, through the attic (not even bothering to bid Jarvis a fond farewell) and out in the pouring rain. Trouble is, Doily’s just the other side of that door. It will be the work of a moment for him to dash out and follow. Elegant and polite though he is, Doily looks like he can give a decent chase. Worse still, Doily has eyes. Sharp one too. No time to run. Alright then, what does that leave? Knocking the servant on the head? With what? A picture frame? A small objet d’art? The nearest one is a small vase. Nineteenth century Bastian if he knows his stuff, worth a small pile of concords. It would be a shame to smash it over a polite and solicitous head. That leaves only two significant options. Brazening it out. Charm then. Guile. Talk too fast, fluster the servant, and then make a break for it. There’s always a little light magic. Make himself as invisible as he can, make himself blend in with the corridor, and hope Doily does not bother to search the corridor.

That is the best option. There are enough shadows here, and it is only the smallest and most familiar of magics. He flicks his hands, gives his fingers a flutter, and mutters a few of bastardized words under his breath. First he fades a little. Like turning down the lights, and he is both the light and the hand that turns the lapwick knob. How does that work anyway? How in seventy times seven netherworlds does he know what it is like to be a lamp?
This is neither the time nor the place for philosophical musings. This is time to act. Or, if the spell works in time to refrain from any acting at all.

And so he fades, the colors of his clothes bleed out into the silent air of the corridor. The colors of the hideous wallpaper and the excellent wood paneling swallow him up and moment at a time. In just a few moments he will seem to not be here at all.

A few moments too long. Doily opens the door. He’s a little more than halfway shrouded. A ridiculous state. Like it as not he’s more a floating head looking a bit transparent and more than a bit out of sorts. It’s worse than being naked. He’s not sure why, but it remains a fact.

It is also a fact, an indisputable fact, that the World's Politest Man is looking right at him. Worse he has recognized him. Brazening it out is all that is left, and this one better be as flash as can be. He needs an explanation, something quick, something just absurd enough to be true. Pity he did not lift anything from the servant. No, there is something to that though. What has he got in his pockets?

“Ah, um, yes. Well, this is a stroke of luck! You’ll never guess it, but after you left that tavern, some sly buz sidles up to you, yeah? Well, lifted a bit of ging from your good self, if you follow, and so I gave chase, and snaffled it back.” A thin tale, but it was something. A fabrication of whole cloth, but now was not the time for truth. He reaches into his pocket. Three concords, seven and six, not bad takings. Lifted it from a spherical gent trundling through Crosstown. A proper clouting-lay, coins and the handkerchief all in one swift go. Fine work. “Tried to find you all over the city, I did. You’re harder to find than you’d think.” He cocks his best smile, and continues the tale. “And, here’s me, a flash operator, a wick of the Seven Bells with stolen ging. I can’t very well just waltz up to the door here and hand over the coin, now can I? Looks damn suspicious. So, and here’s the part that’ll get you, I lighted in from that attic and was going to deposit the coins in your chambers, neat as you please. Breaking and depositing, you might say.”

Roll

Shroud: SidekickBOT12/11/2020
@Runcible Spoon: 1d6 = (4) = 4

Roll

Brazening it out: SidekickBOTToday at 9:53 PM
@Runcible Spoon: 1d6 = (5) = 5

[Yazad]

Vienda - Carnelian Street

7th of Loshis, 2720; The Small Hours

Y azad was not even aware that his heart could go this fast.

He could feel the beat pounding against his chest, and hear the erratic rhythm thrumming in his ear. Fear was as foreign a sensation as anger or sadness to the mellow passive, felt mostly when he encounters the unwelcomed visits of terrible crawlers on the kitchen floor--and when he finds strangers occupying the corridor of the house he lives in at the crack of dawn. It would be rather inaccurate to call the man a stranger; he knew him at least to some degree. That still, however, does not make the man’s presence any less surprising. Unless they were both tenants of the same house and just did not notice it before.

Yazad swallowed a hitching breath and rolled his widened eyes right and left. Motions had ceased, and there were no more noises -sneezes or otherwise- to be heard. He needed a few seconds, just a bit of time, to calm his throbbing head and racing heart. Breathe in, breathe out. This cannot possibly be a dream or a product of drunken delusion. He did not often have much of the former, and he was twenty-three years too sober for the latter. Spirits; not something that he indulged in, exactly because he discovered -after his one and only time of imbibement- that he will turn into a giggling fool as soon as that third sip goes down his throat.

For a moment, all seemed calm and quiet, causing the man to shift his weight slightly, uncertainly. He would have screamed for the sleeping galdor if he felt any more threatened, but he doubted his voice would carry out that far. Screaming--not something that he could manage easily. Even going above his normal pitch was a struggle. Additionally, he was the kind of person who froze when frightened, rather than hit a sharp C in vocal alarm. So, no screaming, no calling out for Sophronios. It will not save him if the intruder intended any harm, and if that was the true intention then the lack of assault was inexplicable. Why would anyone want to do that, anyway? He had not harmed anyone--not that he knows of.

Careful, slow. Yazad had managed to gather enough resolve for a confrontation. Questions need to be asked--a number of ‘why’ and ‘what’, perhaps also ‘how’. The slender fingers of one pale hand closed around the loose fabric of his gown, lifting it up slightly for easier movements. He had the light-footedness of a dancer, his gait was steady as much as it was graceful. It should be fine, there is a good reason for all of this, as always there was one. He just needed to compose himself and handle the matter on his own. Ah, yes, he had calmed down and his composure had returned.

"Egh…?!" Another sound that he did not know that he was capable of. Amusing, if in different circumstances. Pale green eyes opened wider at the sight of a there-yet-not figure looking back at him. A specter? A ghost? Is this a haunting such as the ones spoken of in those newspapers headlines every now and then? Seances gone wrong, the titles often said. Those were quite the rage a few years ago. The seances, not them going wrong, that is. But no, that must be nothing other than a bizarre trick of the eye. Odd lighting and all that. Or magic. He never understood how that worked.

And then, the semi-transparent figure spoke to him.

"O-Oh, goodness, it is you. Oh, goodness gracious. I cannot say that I have noticed the--ahem, the lifting of ging, but you have...snaffled it back for me?" The passive, still looking baffled and confused, was not certain what ‘ging’ was, or ‘snaffling’ for that matter, but he could attempt a guess. He stood a short distance away, close enough to have a good view of the man before him.

The time of his return from the tavern came back to him in a haze of vague images. He remembers coming back to the house and shedding his clothes as soon as he was out of sight of the house’s only other resident. Was there anything missing from his pockets? From his pocketbook? Yazad realized that he had not checked. There was simply no reason to. But here the man was, standing before him with coins in hand. Well, that answers at least one of his many questions, and surely there is no other reason for someone to appear at the house at this hour. Feelings of gratitude and relief flooded Yazad’s chest, and the man found himself slowly smiling and advancing a few more paces towards the other, a hand resting atop his breast.

There was a look of awe and amazement that was openly displayed on Yazad’s face. What a wondrous world this is. "Oh, how curiously fate often works. Had the good sir waited for a few more days, he would have come into an empty house. How fortunate." He was always told that he is; luck seemed to favor him more than it did many others for most of his life.

"This is very reminiscent of a magical tale. Not one of those talley dreadfuls, mind you. A tale told by my mother, Hurte bless her heart, when I was a child. About a hunter who was rewarded by a woodland creature for his integrity." As the tale goes, Ju’lya the woodland dweller, impressed by the man’s righteousness, rewarded him with a priceless treasure. Or was that Ta’shea? Ah, no. Ta’shea was the queen from that other tale with the golden ship and the massive bird of prey. The details of once-adored fantastical stories of his younger years were now no more than faded strokes on the canvas that is his childhood memories.

"This is such admirable honor, good sir. Oh, such chivalry--it makes my heart warm. You needed not to trouble yourself to look for me, but you did. And for that, I can only ask you to keep what you have, um, snaffled on my behalf as compensation." To further affirm his resolution to reward the other’s deed of goodness, Yazad’s fingers gently pushed the coin-bearing hand back towards its owner. The method of delivery was certainly an odd one, but who is he to not appreciate a man who had tried his best to be upstanding?

Well, that was that, then. And now there was an awkward silence. All too suddenly, Yazad became self-aware of how terribly casual his attire was for a proper company. Promptly, he gave his hair a quick brush with his fingers and then smoothed down the front of his white nightgown. "Please, do forgive my unkemptness. It is rather chilly outside with all that rain. Would you care for some tea? Or hot cocoa, perhaps? You simply cannot come into the house and leave without hospitality, that would be just shameful on my part."

With Cat-Like Tread

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian
The Seventh of Loshis, the Small Hours

G

randa always says ‘the bigger the smile, the sharper the knife.’ It is good advice. How it applies when a polite man in a dressing gown is offering you tea or cocoa is less clear. He blinks at the man and his loopy bonhomie. Either Doily is also the World’s Most Foolish Man, or he has some game. Doily doesn’t look like a flash operator. Then again, the best flash kovs never do. The guise of a noddy is always a popular one. Look like a friendly fool, play a game so deep that none can smoke it. Not until it is far too late.

The assessment might fit another man, but Doily defies classification. A bene kov, and with finer manners and deportment than more than half the gollies he knows. He knows far too many. Well, not so much knows as has observed them from behind their ornamental screens while he lifts their bank details, the family silver, and their small jewelry. Most are crass, self-important scaly bastards. Fine clothes and rotten souls. Doily isn’t acting. There is no one here to impress. Just him. No one tries to impress the burglar when he comes calling. A genuine gentry-kov then. The valets who play above their station, who think themselves high and mighty, call themselves ‘gentlemen’s gentlemen’. Doily is the genuine article. What sort of nib finds himself laid so low as to become a servant? Not an au pair or a lady’s companion or anything of the like, but a proper servant?

There is something off about Doily’s field. Maybe that is it? An infirmity of the spirit that makes him unsuitable to his family? There are few enough passives and the like abroad in Vienda. Most are locked up in Brunnhold. It must be a formidable place to house so many prisoners. Is that what the man is? A genteel passive? The man does feel odd, and not just in his politeness.

Well, it makes no matter. Let him be whatever it is that suits him. What matters in the here and now is what is going on in that overly polite head. Time to probe, careful, delicate like. Let Doily be the lock. Let the conversation be the picks.

“Fate and fortune are funny things alright. That I’ll grant you. And glad to have found you before you bunked off to wherever it is you’re bound.” Best to keep the mood light, best stick to the tale. One chain of lies is easy enough to follow, any more, and contradictions arise. “Besides, it seemed like you could use the help of a kov who knows what’s what. Begging your pardon, but it don’t seem like you’re cut out for a rough life in narrow streets. All sorts of sly cross-traders abroad, and you might look an easy mark to them.” He gives the man another knowing smile. He knows the cross-trade very well, knows it is all too easy to pluck a plump pigeon such as Doily seems. “Not sayin’ you are, just that a gent like yourself looks the part. It ain’t genteel to filch and fleece an out-of-towner. Gives the city a bad name. We can’t be havin’ that, now can we?”

There is at least some truth to it. Rich foreign merchants are one thing, plump as anything and ripe for the game, but tourists and bumpkins are too easy. Laying them up for the low-toby is crass art and unbecoming of a proper thief. There’s no class, no dash, no style. Footpads and buzzes are lowlifes, even imaginary ones.

The conversation is like something out of a dream. Polite, elegant, and slightly unsettling. Doily has raised no alarm, seems to have accepted that flash fellows breaking into houses to leave a little money is the most natural thing in the world. The man has invoked the blessings of Hurte. Maybe such things happen daily in Bastia. Foreigners have strange ideas about how things are done. “Ah, don’t go discounting the tally dreadfuls. Very edifying, and full of folklore as old and deep as any other tale. The city’s got stories just like any other place. The writers just clean up the blood, the love, and the real sordidness of the old tales and add more in the way of dialog. My old granny knew the old tales. The proper old ones. The ones to curdle your blood and turn your stomach. The ones wish dashing rogues and clever servants. The ones the damn censorious publishers think are too obscene for the printing. If you’ll pardon the expression sir.” He knows any number of tales of the city, of horrible murders and strange goings on. Of love thwarted. Of lecherous guardians and young ladies with golden hair. He even knows a few about heroic thieves. Thieves who play tricks on the wicked and the powerful. Thieves to punish hubris. There’s a fine profit in such trickery. The thieves always come out with swag, and half the time with the old miser’s daughter. What would he do with a miser’s daughter? Can’t hawk them, or change them for coin. Can’t store them in a cupboard or invest them in some scheme.

No. That’s all folly. A fine girl with golden hair is just the thing the Red Madame might snaffle up. A beautiful prize. Worth her weight in gold, provided she isn’t too buxom. Not a business he wants any part of. The flesh trade is not his style. It makes his stomach squirm. No, he’d have to find some occupation for any miser’s daughter he is saddled with. Gods and spirits but he hopes Doily and his master don’t have any doe-eyed wards laying about. Pretty ladies are all well and good. They are not his style.

He’d rather a clever girl who can make him laugh and who enjoys a bit of conspiring over a pint. One who can beat him at cards half the time. There’s no sense getting all mooney about such things. Standing in a corridor trying to out-bluff a gent in a bathrobe is no time to dream up imaginary young ladies.

“Thanks for letting me keep the coin. Much appreciated. Though, you may want to tell whoever it is that owns this place that the attic window is a treat to pick, and the next cat who creeps along may have a darker agenda.” He pockets the coins, careful and slow, never taking his eyes off Doily. The man may be a generous fool, but that’s no cause to let down his guard. Not in the slightest.
“Pay no mind to your attire. It's a fine and modest dressing gown. All very genteel.” He looks at his own shabby and much-repaired clothes, all in shades of dark greys, sooty blacks, and deep rusts. Good lurking clothes, but hardly the thing to wear to a discussion salon. “I shouldn’t keep you from your morning. I assume himself will be abroad eventually.” He gestures vaguely down to the corridor and gives a friendly wink. “Don’t want to impose as it were.” Ah to the netherworlds with it. He is cold, his clothes are still damper than he likes, and Doily seems a cordial enough host. And a cordial enough puzzle. If Doily is some dark operator, but to take the measure of the man. “But, were it quick and easy, I’d not say no to a cup of tea.”

[Yazad]

Vienda - Carnelian Street

7th of Loshis, 2720; The Small Hours

T he look Yazad gave his now-not-semi-transparent guest was an expectant one. It would not sit well with his conscience to let the man leave without hospitality, and the fellow’s rejection would mean that the servant will have to suffer the burning of guilt for the rest of the day. Oh, how selfish a man he is, and how terribly awful for not feeling sorry enough about it.

"We shall set for Old Rose Harbor. Oh, I am ever so eager to go there. I have not seen proper roses ever since we left Florne." Yazad’s hands clapped lightly, once. His smile carried all the delight he felt to finally be able to visit the place that he had envisioned as a paradise of blooms. "And true you are, good sir. It is not by mere chance that we were brought together twice. The ways of fate are amusing indeed. With that being said, I--um, I must admit that my memory fails me in regards to the good sir’s name." The passive admitted with a touch of sheepishness lacing his smile. Truthfully, Yazad was not sure that he and the man he met at the tavern even exchanged names back then. It was a miserable damp event, best kept out of memory lest he loathes himself for how wretched he must have looked back then. Wet hair, drenched clothes, and his lips no doubt quivered like they did when he was a child if he got a rare scolding and attempted so hard to hold back his wails. The truth of the matter is, Yazad had taught himself to be stoic with his expression of misery far before his time of service if only so he can hear his mother say how proud she was of his fortitude.

What the other said next left Yazad staring with a slow blink at the man. There certainly were an awful lot of people named ‘Kov’ in these parts, and he could recall with decent clarity that the gentleman had called another fellow that in the tavern. He cannot pretend to know what baby names were popular in Vienda at whatever time period these people were born in, but he certainly found the lack of originality rather sad. He had never met another Yazad in his life, but that could as well be because he was in Anaxas and not in Hesse. "Goodness me, but how did you know that we come from Brunnhold? Oh, well, you likely did not know that we came from Brunnhold, I just said that myself, but you knew that we are not from Vienda. Ah, indeed, thievery is not what one wants their city to be known for." Yazad’s smile mirrored that of the man with such keen observation. He himself did not think that he stood out much--he was simply a manservant, and there had to be plenty of these in parts where galdori resided, but he could as well be a different species of manservants to a local.

The rain continued to patter against the house’s windows, now even slightly stronger than it did before. Engaged as he was in his conversation with the day’s unexpected guest, Yazad had toned out the noise. It was, just like before, there yet not.

"Oh, think nothing of it. What manner of man would I be if I allowed a good deed to go unrewarded?" There was a dismissive, playful yet graceful wave of Yazad’s hand. "I shall do that." He followed, making a mental note to set down a bowl of milk for any cats that find their way into the attic. The picking of windows sounded like an odd set of skills to have. He definitely did not try it before, but it sounded difficult and even possibly illegal. It is his fortune -their fortune- that the one who discovered the window’s flimsiness was not one of those fabled housebreakers. They do make the headlines on morning newspapers at times, but he had never seen one in the flesh. Without a doubt, they -unlike this man- reeked of villainy and had eyes full of menace that exposed them.

A giggle, light and short, escaped the passive’s rose-colored lips at the other’s reassurance. Slender fingers flicked the long, flowing sleeping gown while he half twirled as if to indulge in the white attire’s buoyancy. "I do like this one. Fine fabric indeed, and very well stitched. The ones made of poorer material, oh, they chafe the skin so." Yazad raised and opened his arms slightly to affirm his point. Good tailorship was to be admired, and he was certain that the man would agree. Some might claim that the type of fabric and threads made no difference, and those were the people who were not blessed -or cursed, depending on one’s perspective- with tactile senses as sensitive as his. Incidentally, those are also the sort of people who are content walking the streets wearing no cologne or perfume.

"If only." Yazad sighed softly and shook his head slightly, in the same manner a tired mother would. "I would be in the kitchen by now should this be a workday. Alas, I know that today, anything I make will find no eater. The good master had been up all night, attending the activities of men such as him. So, I assure you, you keep me from nothing." The sincere insistence was followed with another sigh, this time of relief. Sophronios was not quite as welcoming to people as he is, and the galdor had this negative notion that people were never who they seem to be. How stifling it must be to always see the worst in people. It was not a view that Yazad shared, and Sophronios knew that, but it only made him more critical of the passive’s cordiality. Should the galdor have been awake when the man came in, he would have opted to toss him out into the pounding rain with a few choice words to go with that. That was no way to treat a guest, there were etiquettes to be followed. Not for Sophronios, though. The scholar only followed whatever his obsessive mind told him to, and that oftentimes meant things like exclaiming ‘What if!’ out of the blue or wasting the night away debating with other science fanatics instead of sleeping as proper living beings should.

"I shall make it so." The passive’s smile brightened as an agreement was given despite his internal woes. Not only was he ill-dressed for proper company, but ‘quick and easy’ meant that he would not be able to manage refreshments to go with the tea. A lamentable state of affairs, but he had to work with what he promised to provide--something quick and easy. Yazad faced the other and offered a brief and nimbly executed bow, before motioning with his hand down the hallway. "Please, do make yourself comfortable in the parlor while I fetch your tea. Ah, goodness me, my manners are rather deplorable today. I am Yazad, at your service."

With Cat-Like Tread

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian Street
The Seventh of Loshis, the Small Hours

A

t some point he is going to wake up. He has to. Either back in his alcove or else in some gutter in the Ladies, his spleen having been used as a dance floor by Wilkes’ bully boys. Or possibly in prison. What larks. He shakes his head, trying to make the dream vanish. No luck. He remains as he has been, waiting on whatever wheeze the World’s Politest Man has up his elegant dressing gown sleeves. It is bound to be a trap.

It has to be.

Do polite men set traps with wistful talk of flowers? Seems a bit odd. He’ll take the bait for now. At least he knows it is bait. Makes is easier to leave behind. “I ain’t never been to the Rose, but I hear it’s a fragrant burg.” Fragrant with the smell of rotten fish, tar, and the stink of men who make Wilkes look like a genteel lad about town. As though the threats and the beatings were just the way commerce is done. “But, it ain’t Vienda. We’ve roses here, as many as you please. Don’t think it’s the season for them just now, but the Gardens down the Measurings ,” no luck in Doily speaking cant. Too polite and well-spoken to speak clearly. “Down in Arithmetical Park I mean, they’ve got roses for days. Roses, and not a rotten fish to be smelled. Lots of stinking fish in the Rose, or so I’ve heard tell.”

What the hells are Doily and his scholarly gent doing drifting down-river to Vienda’s Sewer? Neither of these flowers looks like the short who thrive in shit. The Sewer’s all sailors, smugglers, fishers, and Brothers. A scalier bunch he can’t imagine. The Brothers run the place, private-like. They had tried to run Vienda the same way. Same coarse swagger and bilgewater manners. Their chief’s supposed to be a flash kov. His boys are as flash as soot and twice as noxious. No style, no class. Oh they do a decent business in the City, bit it is not their home. They don’t know it. Not like he does, not like the rest of the family. There’s no love in their dealings. Less still any of what Mr Shike likes to call ‘Civic Virtue’.

Ah. Now here is the trap hoving into view. Doily wants his name. Names are dangerous things. A good job then he has so many. “Call me Squeaks.” It is a name he has owned, one given to him on account of how his voice used to sound, back when he was a lad. He’s been meaning to get rid of it. Well, no time like the present. Let Doily take it away to the Sewer. “Not the best of names, but one takes what one is given. Not much say in the matter.”

Doily is a problem. Doily is dangerous. The man can stand there, harmless and a hingle, and extract whatever information he requires. Extracts with a smile, a nod, and a sort of innocent bafflement , as though he has no idea what is happening around him. A fine skill. Uncle Toby could use a man like that. A perfect second for the fiddle game. Doily could tell you the sky was green, with orange and lavender spots, and for half a moment you’d see them too, just to humor the man. They say Mugrobi don’t lie. Doily isn’t Mugrobi in any way he’s ever known. Doily is something else. Whatever he says seems to be the truth. A man who can make the world embarrassed to contradict him.

Maybe that’s what he feels in the servant’s unnatural field, the world’s apologies.

“I smoked you as a foreigner the moment you walked into that tavern, begging your pardon. Didn’t know where from, but that ain’t no Vienda accent. Not even the toffs and fancy kovs up on the Hill sound so polite.” He gives Doily a small nod, dismissing the idiots of Ro Hill. “We get a lot of foreigners here about, ain’t any great surprise to find them anywhere from Featherstone to Lawnswine. Or any parts in between. Some of the locals fancy that makes for easy pickings and easier marks. Some are, of course, but I fancy a tailor up for the trimmings would have a time with you. A few cultured words, a flower-fragrant smile, and the tables would turn.” True enough. This chat is living proof.

The clock is ticking by. There is always a clock measuring the hours. Best to keep things moving, to keep Doily talking and not raising anything like an alarm. Yes, that must be it, that must be what he is continuing this daft palaver. Well, that and seeing how long this strange dream will last.

He has his route planned, his escape worked out well enough. Doily will make tea, will clatter about in the kitchen. Tea does not take long. It takes long enough for him to slip back through the attic and out into the driving rain. Nothing significant is missing from the house. If Doily and his master are to depart, then any small missing items can be chalked up to oversights in the packing. That will never do. Doily will do the packing. Doily would consider it an offence to forget anything whatsoever. The man probably color-coordinates his master’s small clothes with his cravats, probably knows at least twenty ways to tie a neck cloth.

A nagging thought scratches the back of his mind, a small but growing one. Doily shows no fear, no real shock, as though burglars call at this house any day of the week. Like the postman. Doing a bunk may be the wrong course of action. It will raise whatever suspicions the servant has left. New plan then. He will wait. If no bells ring, no cry of alarm is raised, if Doily comes back with the steaming cup and that daft smile of his, well, it may be better to take tea and then leave by the front door. There’s a first time for everything.

“Your master’s a man of odd hours and singular habits? Seems about right. I know the kind. Strange, difficult, but not exactly bad. My own employer, well, he keeps hours that bear no resemblance to any clock I’ve ever seen. Can be exacting, snippy, but he leaves me to carry out my tasks as I see fit.” A little bait of his own, a little show of solidarity. All servants together, and all that. It’s all tosh. Tosh can be useful.

At the invitation, he slides into the library. A fine place, rich and comfortable. Not the sort of place to read The Creeper of Pengborn. Better to read some fancy three-volume novel with a lady’s name for the title. Henrietta or Sempronia perhaps. More tosh. A lot of flowery words to cover thin plots, too much sighing, a surprisingly poor garment industry -- judging by all the clothing that gets ripped -- , and heroines who seem more like potted plants than people. At least Ms Alexandra Pimm, the sprightly narrator of The Creeper of Prengborn knows what she is about, even if she is not yet sure who the murderer is. She’ll sort it out. She usually does. A far more improving book. Edifying.

Another chair by another fire. Is this going to become a feature of his life now? Sitting in golly-haunted comfortable rooms with an appropriate beverage? Not something he would have ever credited, but it seems to have become a feature. Mr Shrike’s wine and brandy are good. Doily, no Yazad that’s the name he claims he owns, will make excellent tea. Stands to reason.

“So, you’ll be off in a few days time? Pity. For a nominal fee I could have shown you and your master about. Shown you both the real Vienda. Small cafes no one remembers, theaters putting on new works that make you think or laugh, winding streets, sites of historical interest. The lot.” He cocks a smile. Touting is decent work, and half honest. “Still, I suppose you only have a few days here. That ain’t any time at all.”

He cannot come back to the house, not until Doily and his master are gone. It will be a delay. Delays are unavoidable. Mr Shrike will understand. Gods he hopes Mr Shrike will understand.

[Yazad]

Vienda - Carnelian Street

7th of Loshis, 2720; The Small Hours

T he mysterious meaning of ‘burg’ aside, Yazad was content enough to know about Old Rose Harbor’s fragrance. Hurte knows that the world can do with more aroma and less bland nothingness in its cities. The most that he had managed to smell in The Stacks was petrichor, and that is as far as mildly tolerable scents of nature were concerned. "Do you now?" The passive’s face gained what brightness the overcast and weeping sky currently lacked upon hearing of the presence of rose gardens in Vienda. That, he enthused internally, was exactly the sort of place he should be going to visit before their departure. It will hopefully be a less botched experience than his attempt to find what he was told is a landmark of Vienda; The Painted Ladies. So many streets traversted, and not a single work of art to be found in sight. And how did that conclude? With him, soaked and miserable, sitting by the fire at a tavern that so happens to be there.

The dreamy thoughts of, as the other put it, ‘roses for days’ was enough to make the passive’s mind gloss over that part about fish and stink. What was that even about? Arithmetical Park was the name that he should commit to memory because the only way he can go there is by asking others where that is.

It was nearly spontaneous; the chuckle of amusement that Yazad had let out upon hearing the other’s name. Squeaks! "Goodness me, how quaint. Oh, pardon me. I mean no offense to your good name. It just is almost like a puppy’s, and I must say that it goes with the good sir’s beautifully large eyes." It was a good-hearted observation that Yazad saw no harm in sharing, even more so since Squeaks did not seem terribly in dislike of it despite his words. "A rather unique name, if nothing else. One cannot imagine meeting many others named Squeaks." At least the man’s parents, odd as they were to name the boy after a verb, had more wit than to simply name their child Kov like every other Vienda parent apparently was.

The gist of Squeaks’ entire paragraph of spoken words -again, with a reference to several Kovs- was, Yazad surmised, that he had a foreign accent, and was,,, more polite than those on the...Hill? Well, that did tell him a few things about the state of manner conducts in Vienda, or perhaps the lack thereof. "I must admit that I find the local accent just as foreign. Bless you, I mean not to dismiss your manner of speech as unintelligible, but it is certainly not what we are used to hearing in Brunnhold, or Florne, or Hesse." The smile he wore now was more apologetic than anything.

Yazad’s feet were grateful for the plush carpet beneath them, ugly as the pattern might be. It soaked in the sound of their feet walking down the corridor, ensuring that the master would not be disturbed. "You describe him rather accurately. He is a man who is terse with words and destitute in affection, but one does not condemn his family simply for being a madman." Yazad nodded slowly, sagely, both in agreement and in defeat. His deflation lasted but only a second before he perked up again to ask a curious question. "What of your employer, though? Does he happen to be a scholar as well?" The passive was under the impression that Squeaks could have been a window washer or a chimney sweeper. What other professions allow a person the ability to scale houses and not end up a heap of broken bones on the street?

With his guest now comfortably led to where he can sit and relax while Yazad brews him some tea, the passive managed a sigh and another shake of his head at the door. "If only he would spare the time to do that, good sir. If only." Tourism was even less suitable for Sophronios than it was his constantly lost, easily amused servant. "I shall return shortly, do make yourself comfortable." The kitchen, thankfully, was not too far away.

Feeling the urgency of having to serve a guest in an adequate fast manner, Yazad gathered up his long sleeping gown and hastened down the hallway towards the kitchen. A visitor he did not expect today, but a visitor he got and as Squeaks had said earlier, one has to work with what he is given. Tea is a simple affair to make, but everything has to be perfect if he is to make his guest’s brief stay pleasant enough. The steps that Yazad knew by heart were performed with deft ease, while the raven-haired man warbled a soft song from days past. A lullaby of nesting doves and plucking ripe fruits, of spring breeze and baby laundry, hung on the branches of pomegranate trees. Water that was already warm was boiled up then poured into the teapot to heat it. While that sat for a few moments, time was used to arrange other things. A small tray lined with a neat lace doily was arranged, a matching porcelain teacup was set on its saucer, a cosy decorated with a floral motif of several colors. A spoonful of tea goes into the water, then another for the pot. One more addition of some water, then more time to do other things again. Milk, sugar, and a slice of lemon to go with the tea. He, personally, took none of these with his, but he will not be caught serving a bare cup with nothing to go with it. A bit more water, and the aroma of the blend -black currant- began to fill the air. His tea was ready, and his song over, so it was time to dress the pot up and head back to where he had left the hopefully not lonesome Squeaks.

"Do pardon my delay, and forgive the lack of refreshments to go with your tea." Yazad emerged into the library, the tray of tea with its single cup in hand.

With Cat-Like Tread

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian Street
The Seventh of Loshis, getting on towards dawn

L

A strange morning. One of the strangest he has known. Still, strangeness now seems to be the order of the age. When was his last ordinary day? Nothing comes to mind. For months he’s been skulking about the city, watching for flash kovs, flasher madames, and houses that are less salubrious than they seem. He goes on the game, of course, but those nights are rare enough. He steals more privacy now than silverware. May the market in the former will pick up. He’d seen enough of the movements of ladies and gents who might not want their movements broadcast. Blackmail’s not his favorite game, but leverage-peddling, now there’s a lark. He had once sold a confidential ledger from some commodities trader to a rival, all handled nice and neat. The rival had made a killing in the stock market, doing some real sharp work. Shorting was it? Makes no matter. Finance has its own cant. Not much ging made it into his own pockets, but word went around among the cognoscenti. It’d been a good scrap.

He’s not sure what leverage he can salvage from this conversation. Doily, and he cannot help but still think of this Yazad character as such, seems about as guiless as an overgrown child, his master seems to be the retiring sort. Nothing to acquire, nothing to speak of in hushed in the back room of some nameless alehouse. Instead, it seems all he can take away from this morning is an excellent cup of tea and a tale no one will believe. He does not believe it himself.

“Names is odd all over,” he says, dismissing the insult that Doily seems to think he has made. “Yours ain’t like anything I ever heard coming out of Bastia. But, I’m no expert. Oddities just happen. For all I know, there might be hundreds of Yazads cavorting in vineyards and rowing boats about.” Bastians must cavort in vineyards. He’s read that somewhere. Cavorting, flowers, and probably poisoning people at dinner parties and stabbing them before desert. Doily would be an ideal assassin. The man looks like he’s always cavorting in vineyard, not like someone who will slip a dagger between your ribs or poison your wine. “I’m sure I’d be lost with whatever canting-jaw goes on back in Florne or wherever.” He gives a small laugh and shakes his head. “Accent all wrong, no sense of word or custom.” And still a better sense of the world than Doily. And yet here he is, having a civil conversation with the man. The man has the air of a sweetly daffy aunt. He’s got a few those himself. Harmless, mostly, though with a strange way of looking at the world. The burglar dropping by for tea; the most natural thing in the world. Somehow it almost makes sense. Somehow it fits. He will have to watch himself all the more. No sense in playing this game too far along.

There is sense in at least waiting to see what happens next. The servant seems harmless enough, and eager to chat. Well, he is a gentleman’s gentleman. It stands to reason those don’t get out much, what manning of gentlemen they must be up to. “No, my principal's not a scholar, leastways not in the usual sense.” Mr Shrike reads voraciously, writes constantly, and lives mostly in his head. Seems like a scholar, at least to an untrained eye. Mr Shrike is more dangerous. Whatever it is that he is really up to, it has edges like knives. “Legal gent. Keeps me around to attend to whatever it is that needs attending. Running errands mostly. Doing a little legwork for cases, delivering messages.” Spying on politicos. Tracking down mistresses.

Something Doily says makes him stop. The man let something slip. Family eh? Well, that explains the genteel nature at least. The question, and the answer can wait for the tea.

On silent feet Doily departs, padding down the corridor. The kitchen isn’t far. He’s nipped down there a handful of times. Nothing to write home about. What would he even say?

Dear Ma,

Went down to a scholar’s kitchen today. Yes, it’s as bare and uninteresting as you’d expect. Couldn't find any Mimsbury Sauce even. Bloody cheek.

-B


Not the most gripping literature. No, nothing at all to write home about. This room, however, is a different story altogether.

Dear Ma,

There’s a kip just off Carnelian Street, up in Bellington, what will soon be empty. The gent who lives here is heading to the Sewer with his body-man in a few days time, so it’ll be quiet-like. I’ve been smoked here so the crack ain’t on me, but their’s fine books, decent plate, a bust of some dispeptic toff what looks to be at least two centuries old, and the usual kit you see in a gent’s study. Might be fabric too, though I wager the gent’ll take his financial with him. Pass along the chant, if you would. I know Mazzie and Trisp might be needing a job, easy like, and poor old Potato Joe, well, a bit of ging coming his way can’t but serve him well.

Let’em know the chant’s from me, but keep close.

More to follow.

-B

Doily’s back now, carrying a proper tray of tea and accoutrements. Pot, saucers, cups that cost far more than they should. All fine and fancy and delicate. Just like Doily. All there to serve a purpose. Just like Doily. He’s never quite learned proper manners. Do you elevate the little finger or no? Is it civil to put nothing in tea, or does he have to put milk in? He drinks his tea plain and most often in cracked old mugs, or else in those tea bowls Mr Shrike prefers. No worries about finger raising there. No handles to negotiate. Just too-hot blue and while porcelain. Well, manners will fail him. Best to try for care then. Spare movements, precise gestures, no spilling, no slurping. Like picking a lock. Care and precision. It may not be right, but it can’t be too offensive. And so he pours the tea, black and smelling faintly of dried fruits. He had hoped for bergamot tea, but no luck. No matter. He is in no position to argue. Never argue with a man who holds all the cards.

Steam rising from the cup, he takes a small slice of lemon in careful fingers, twists it over the brew. A fine rain of lemon oil falls upon the surface. The ripples are few and far between. Then, still careful and neat, he passes the peel around the rim of the cup and sets the slice aside. A little citrus to perk things up, but not enough to interfere with the tea itself. It seems an insult to add more. It seems an equal insult not to make use of the flummeries on the tray.

The tea is ready now, though still too hot to drink. Still, he raises the cup, cradles it a bit in his still-cold fingers. Not genteel, but understandable. At least he hopes so. “Before you biffed off for the brew,” he nods to the pot and draws in a long sniff of the tea in his hands, “and a good one it seems, you said you work for family? Seems strange to me, but then I ain’t no golly. I mean, one golly serving another like you do. Blacksheep branch? You and your’s own this scholarly relative some debt?” It a common enough situation in the Dives. Debts paid in service rather than ging. Hells, he’s done it himself, though nothing like this. “Only, you seem a fine and posh gent of style and manners. I’d figure you for the one with servants.”

[Yazad]

Vienda - Carnelian Street

7th of Loshis, 2720; The Small Hours

A s he placed down the tray of hastily-brewn tea on the table, Yazad was still considering the possible hundred Yazads who are, as Squeaks had put it, cavorting in vineyards. It was an image both humorous and thought-provoking. Did his guest possess a gift in the nature of exposing the contents of another’s mind? How did he know that Yazad was in the habit of dancing? Granted, it was not done in vineyards, and the passive would call it more than just cavorting, but that was still a rather impressive display of intuition, or magic. What a strange, vague thing that is--magic. Yazad could never process how it exactly functioned, and what could or could not be done with it. A fine thing then that he was not born a galdor, for he would have struggled greatly with the practice. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and he found it a struggle exactly because he was not born a galdor. Nothing much to it, Yazad told himself with a content smile and a slight shake of his head. One cannot change who he is, and the man quite liked who he was. He doubted that many galdori know the joy of producing a perfectly golden batch of pastries, or the peace of rising before the sun does.

Tea was poured into the floral, gold-rimmed cup. Yazad remained in place for a moment, just to see if the visitor needed something else, or something different. A proper servant in the company of lords and madams does not sit down unless told to, but he was both the servant and the host right this moment. A host hovering over his guest’s person is nothing short of tactless, not to mention rather stifling. With that thought in mind, the passive allowed himself the permission to be seated. The plush sofa he lowered himself into was not the largest in the room -that would be Sophronios’ personal seat- and yet Yazad found his toes barely reaching the carpeted floor as he crossed his legs. He often huddled into himself when he was in his nightgown, alone at the hour of the night he considers his own. But he was not alone now, and so he feared that his crossed legs and staunch stance appeared odd. What choice does he have, though? One cannot simply excuse themselves for an hour to dress up in their finest while the guest sat alone with the company of glaring portraits.

All in all, Squeaks appeared to be comfortable enough, tea and zesty addition in hand. Not something that Yazad himself would do, but to each his own. Just as often as he would add flower petals to his cup of tea, the servant would get these looks from his master. The sort of silent, judgemental stares that are meant to be noticed when one wanted to protest but did not want the trouble of outright verbal engagement. And yet Yazad kept adding flowers. Chamomile, fresh or otherwise dried, was soothing. Roses gave the tea a unique flavor. And jasmines--well, they smelled really good.

His companion spoke again, and Yazad’s wandering thoughts paused for a moment as he attempted to recall if he had done any biffing. Squeaks’ indication cleared the matter promptly, but only partially. "Thank you kindly, good sir. It is the sort of day to serve tarts in hopes of lightening the effects of weather, alas." The passive hung his head in shame for his lacking hospitality. After his guilt was successfully silenced, the man looked up to meet his guest’s gaze, confused. "Blacksheep is not a family that I know, I am afraid. Not Bastian if I would wager a guess. I serve the Logarchons, they are indeed my family." Yazad laid his hands on his lap, offering the visitor a smile that carried no trace of rancor. "I had been once served by others, until I was discovered to be rather, shall we say, defective. There are countless things that an affluent family can purchase for their son, but magical talent is not one of them." And the older he got, the more he understood that his parents could have done nothing else. Considering the decision they were faced with, the course of action they chose was likely the most ideal. Would he have done the same if he were the parent? By Hurte, he would never give up his child to anyone. Alas, he would never have a child, and so he was spared the agony of having to make such choices.

"The good master is my father’s cousin. The odd cousin, mind you. He needed an assistant, and I needed to not be kept in the family manor anymore. Astute tradesman that he is, my father managed a bargain." There was no shame or hesitation to be found in the passive’s retelling of his life’s events. This was not illegal in any way that he knows of. Affection tinted both the Bastian’s smile and the eyes to top them. An airy chuckle exited his lips before he continued. "The good master gifts me in concords at times. The matter is, I know they are not his. He does not know that I know." Yazad added mirthfully as if he was recounting the most amusing thing. The meaning behind his words was left up for Squeak’s interpretation.

"And your employer, good sir. A man of the law, you mentioned? I suppose that this explains your gracious attempt at returning the stolen coins. Like attracts like and all that." Interest was openly visible in the passive’s eyes as he leaned slightly forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms, as though he was hoping to be told an entertaining tale.

With Cat-Like Tread