At least nobody inside was singing to drown out conversations. He had arrived before whatever talent was set to perform, and they were still setting up the stage. He'd miss the burlesque show tomorrow night, but sacrifices had to be made. He'd come here to talk, or to be talked to, whichever way the conversation went. He was flexible on that account. If the galdor with whom he was set to have a conversation wanted to do most of the talking, he'd certainly provide a willing ear.
It wasn't hard to find the shorter man, slumped in a veritable heap in one of the plush velvet chairs farther away from the stage. Good choice, however intentional or unintentional it might have been. At least they wouldn't be so close to the singing that it would be a distraction. What might be a distraction, though, was that glass of liquor that Anatole Vauquelin had in his hand. Adam wondered exactly how drunk the galdor had gotten, but he supposed it didn't matter. So long as the other fellow was sensate enough to carry on a conversation, any social lubricant was a good one.
He removed his cap as he pulled up an ottoman to perch on across from the rapidly intoxicating galdor. "Mr. Vauquelin, pleasure to see you. You're keeping well, I hope? Please, allow me to buy the next round as a courtesy for being willing to speak to me." But he didn't sit yet, waiting for the other man to gesture him to do so.
It was impossible to shake the feeling of being a messenger-boy in situations such as these, but he'd have to push down the feeling like he always did in speaking with the gollies. As ever, it was a bit of an effort. He felt his jaw tighten slightly, but relaxed, only a second's flickering tension crossing his face.
He raised his voice a little, in case Vauquelin hadn't heard. The politician did look a little peaked, after all. "Neat Gioran whiskey, if I'm not mistaken? I never forget a drink."