Kasoria didn't often peruse the interior of The Chest. That's what they called it. Not just The Band, or The Delegates, all of them. It had become part of their shared reality now, boiled down into two words easily remembered and instantly understood. There were always plenty of chests, and boxes, and bags, and crates. But there was only one "The Chest".
The one with all the shiny stuff.
"Getting somewhat depleted, I'd say."
Kasoria cocked an eyebrow as he looked up from the interior of The Chest - which sparkled and glinted in the lamplight - into Manclin's pensive face. The diplomat saw the question there and gave a smile.
"We have to get back across the world, remember? It's hardly a small sum to do so, especially considering lodgings, food, pack animals, the various... greasing of the wheel, one needs to indulge in-"
"Aye, yeh made yer point," the little man said, watching the ambassador lock up The Chest thrice over and heave it under his bed. In the other corner, Vaul sat whittling a stick, listening with idle curiosity... eyes never leaving The Chest. "Jus' remember it bein' full t'burstin' once. Din't seem long ago."
Manclin caught the wistful one in the bodyguard's voice. Strange that was how he saw him now. Not as a sellsword, or assassin, or even the "scratcher" term he'd heard bandied about by The Band. Even the specter of the Raggedy Man seemed distant and unlikely... most times. Then he would remember those times Kasoria had proven how he'd earned all those stories and carved his legend into the living stone of life. To the extent even mentioning his name would make hard men quiver and mages soothe their frightened Sparks.
Well, maybe that's a little much. Poetic, though.
"Two arcs, Kas, or thereabouts. Be almost three by the time we get home, I'd say." The noble shook his head and sat down on the edge of his bed. His room was amongst the best appointed, naturally, and the two mercenaries were taking advantage of that. "Every nation East of the Orm'del, bar a couple of notable exceptions. But the important ones, for certain. I'd wager few delegations of Etzori have traveled to far and seen so much in... well, ever, I'd say."
Kasoria made an appreciative face, accompanied to a small smile. That sounded an odd thing to be remembered for... but he didn't dislike the idea. Fame in his world was married to blood and terror as standard, wealth and cunning next. Simply traveling, moving around the world, meeting people... he hadn't realized there was a pedigree in such things. That books might be written, plays made, histories composed-
Easy, old man, rein it in. Only mention you'll get is the ugly sod they found to guard them.
"F'um lucky."
"Sorry?"
Fuck, he'd just let it slip. Another joy of aging. Kasoria shook his head and rose upward with a grunt. Around them he could hear boots stamping and voices calling and packages large and small being heaved around. The delegation was settling in, shoving all of consequence into a convenient place and scrubbing off the mud and getting ready for-
He inhaled, and suppressed another smile. Boar. Wafting through the floorboards. Fates, how long had it been?
"Gonna make one more lap a'fore we eat. Vaul'll stay wiv' yeh."
The leader of The Band tossed the scarred little ganger a firm nod and got one back. He left, and for a moment it was like a scene from noble's nightmare. A helpless blueblood, in a sumptuous room, trapped with a monstrous, flint-eyed killer... until the blueblood waggled his eyebrows.
"Another game?"
"Yer down three t'me already, aul'son," the ganger said, smiling broad enough to make his scar tissue pucker and whiten. "Ain't yeh in deep enuff?"
Fagan Manclin pointed to the table and loosened his cravat. "Set up the board, and find your purse, old man. Get ready to observe a remarkable recovery..."
He made the rounds, like he said. Beat his feet across the boards until his muscles started to remember as much as his mind did. He started from the basement and worked his way up. Windows, doors, shafts, the little platform that ran up through the tavern to deliver food or laundry to each floor. He studied them all. Marked them all. Once he got to the top floor he was able to build a map in his kind that he transferred to a piece of parchment in his room.
It was a rude and haphazard thing, but he found it helped to set his hands to purpose, make what he had seen real. Visible to naked eye and not just that of his mind.
That was where Maxine found Kasoria. Hunched over a charcoal map that looked like a child's drawing. Glancing up at her with a wry half-smile.
She always knows where to find you, old man.
"Money speaks all tongues," he said, quoting something old and appropriately cynical from his home. "An' dere's always someone t'lissen. Leas'ways we're makin' it work for the good a' all rather than jus' a few rich cunts." He looked up a her after that, and if he saw a surprised expression, would give a shrug. "Aye, yeh heard right. An' I, I know Etzos ain't short a' rich cunts. 'spose dats why dey keep bastards like me around... make sure they 'member their place."
That would have been a nice thought, but Kasoria was too old in this ugly world to truly believe it. He'd always been a threat, a weapon, a sword, a dagger in the darkness. Not a means to build something better, but keep those already afraid and oppressed under the heel. Vorund was but the basest and clearest example. Now he was working for the Council, the worthies, the nobility... and he knew few of them were worth those words. But a future had to be made for his home. Etzos needed to heal, and to thrive beyond that healing. He was where he could do the best for his people, even if the rest of his life he was hated as being still and forever the Raggedy Man.
He sighed, looking back down at the map. Fates, but he was maudlin in his old age.
"We'll watch wherever danger comes from," he said simply in response to her next comment. He tapped at the map with his charcoal stick. "Main entrance, side entrance, servants'. One set a' stairs inna' reception, 'nother fer the servants... an' one on the backside a' the building. Problee fer fire or leftover from the old days." He rested his forearms on his knees as he studied the map. Letting the flat drawing become a full image in his mind. "Over 'ere, onna' right? Only building close enuf fer someone t'cross, wiv'out magic, anyway. Belial'll have t'find a perch. Mayhap not even here, but a block away. Dis ain't like Rharne, or Yaralon. We got the floor, not the whole place. Can't do as we please..."
He got up and walked over to the window, still talking. Warming to the subject.
"We'll 'ave a man onna' main stair at all times, two more patrollin' through the floor. You an' me, we'll be on escort duty. At least one a' us. 'tween me magic an' yer... Mark-" a least he could bring himself to spit the word; that was a form of progress "-we're the mos' useful. Rest'll stay here, stay close. Whatever shite's makin' this place sick, I dun' want it messin' wiv' us. Any visitors, they can meet us up 'ere, not downstairs. One of us inna' room at all times."
"There's something to weigh here, too. Your decision. No one knows this place better than I do. I know the streets, the people, the powers, and the lower city. I know when something is wrong. here. If you'd have me keep the inn locked down I'll do it...but it might be worth the risk to drag me along outside of our stronghold we're making."
Kasoria had found his pipe while she talked. Sat in a high-backed chair, carefully out of sight from the window in the room, he packed and lit it as he listened. This... was something he knew had to come up, sooner or later. She wasn't a burden, or a passenger, or a curse. She was a part of The Band. She had purpose and duties and none of them would treat her as anything less. Even here, in a city so riven with hate for her that they had to use magic to change everything about her. Maxine was an asset, plain and simple. Smart, skilled, enhanced by her Marks... and she knew the city. She would be able to find intelligence on what could threaten them faster than any.
And she has a new face on top of it all.
He knew all of this. He wasn't a fool, and wasn't so sentimental to try and protect her forever. But he remembered how he found her, back in Etzos. Pissing her life away one bottle, one snort, one tincture at a time. Lost in that endless despair and self-loathing that had clung to her like a womb-forged disease. Was he ready to set her loose back in the city that sickness had truly taken hold of her? Was he about to trust her enough to undo all the good work she had already done, the progress already made? He sighed and exhaled slowly. Eyes scrutinizing her carefully through the curtain of grey smoke. Finally he sighed, gust of billowing breath rolling through the air.
What did you tell her on the ship? Everyone has their path. She has to choose hers. Make her own way... own mistakes. And your first loyalty isn't to her: it's to the people you fail to serve if you don't use every advantage you have.
"Dun' be too loud about it," he said eventually, perhaps surprising her with his wordless acceptance of her logic and use in Scalvoris. "Ask aroun', anthin' 'bout the troubles on the island, anythin' that could be pinned on Etzos. In fact, any talk a' us or the delegation at all. Find out what you can-" he pointed at her with the pipe "-but only when it comes t'what I jus' said. No reopenin' old wounds. No diggin' where it ain't t'purpose .Y'ain't runnin' solo, girl. Y'work fer me. We clear?"
