So he remained silent, and the merchant inquired again.
“Is anyone there? Anyone at all?” The merchant asked, impertinent and annoyed in his tone. “Anyone?” He asked, one final time before giving up, and walking on. As soon as the man was a reasonable distance away, Fethryn released a sigh of relief and continued his almost predatory stalking of his target. The men continued down a side path, a derelict building of rotten wood to their east, encased in vines and forgotten by time.
The breeze had picked up during their encounter, a somewhat foreboding sign as the cold kissed the Biqaj’s skin. The men continued their stroll, the bodyguards on somewhat low alert for whatever creature or person was stalking them through the lowlit Andar streets. The trio arrived at their destination, Fethryn at ten paces behind. The house had an old, rotten and bolted wooden door, a manoeuvrable metal slat contained within the door so whoever was inside could identify intruders at a glance. Keeping his breath still, he kept his back to the wall adjacent the building, the lack of lighting and his dark clothing submerging him in the stygian darkness. He sidestepped across the boundary, until his body was completely adjacent to the building itself, where the merchant let out three loud knocks on the door.
The metal slat slid open. A pair of eyes peaked through. “What’s the password?” The voice stated, in a hoarse, Rakahi accent. “૭બ ૭ળઌરઇ શઊ ૮ઇએ, ૭બ ઈએળ૯ શઊ રઌઔકમ, રશ ઋન૮મઌડીઇ ૮કએઠઠ ૭ઇ ૭શળર શઊ ઠઌઔકમ.એઌ”. The password was recited, and Fethryn could just about decipher the Rakahi speaking. Something akin to ‘by brine of sea, by dark and light, no justice shall be born of fright.” But as he rolled the rakahi syllables around in his mind, the words started to click into the right places, the right phrases, and soon he was sure he had the message right in his head, he escaped the confines of the wall’s darkness.
“By…brine of sea, by dark of…” Fethryn thought for a second, pondering the rest of the passage in his memory, “…night, no justice shall be born of light?” He exclaimed, looking dead into the guard’s eyes, his own forehead dripping ever so slightly with droplets of salty perspiration.
The eyes of the doorman gazed back at him. Suspicious. A grunt arose from the other side of the door. “Get in. Before the guards see you.” Said the man, opening the door for Fethryn. He had infiltrated the building of his target.
The air was damp, dank, and musty. It smelled of decay, of dereliction, both in appearance and in every other sense that Fethryn could conjure up. He examined the ground floor, and spotted stairs to a second floor, however they were patterned with cracks and pitfalls. He could see light ahead of him, in a room to the north. He could hear the voice, somewhat faint, of the merchant. He’d need to get closer in order to be able to effectively hear what he had to say without being spotted.
He gazed at the guard, residing on a wooden chair. He’d sat since the two interacted, and was on the precipice of sleep. The human’s head lulled, catching himself as the ability to stay awake slowly leeched itself from his body, and his will and consciousness disappeared into a void of rest. Fethryn listened for any activity in the man for five bits, and then man let out a light snore as a sign of his unawareness of Fethryn.
It was time to find information. Gazing at the stairs, he let one leg reach out, until it was stretched to its maximum length. He placed it on the first step. He put weight on it, and the stair itself let out a slight squeak of protest. He looked to the guard, who was still fast asleep. His left leg next, the same careful procedure producing another squeak of protest from the stairs. Fethryn was silent. Was there noise coming from the other room still? He listened out for a tell-tale mumble of noise. One bit passed. Two. The noise resumed, that low, excited mumble of associates talking business.
He continued his slow, methodical approach to sneaking until he got to the top step, looking back to check up on the sleeping bear of a guard who resided downstairs. The squeaking had seemingly awoken him somewhat. The man grumbled, eyes half open, looking around for any immediate disturbances in his surroundings, and then fell asleep once more. His footfalls were slow, methodical, making sure to make as little noise as possible so he did not arouse the suspicion of the guard or the men he was supposed to be spying on.
Fethryn’s job now was to figure out how he could get to a place where he could hear the merchant’s conversations at full. There was a door to his west and a door to his east, and it was a matter of choosing whichever one provided the closest proximity to the noise of his target. He closed his eyes, and crouched for a bit, attuning his ears to the sounds of the mumbling and the sound of silence itself, that dull ringing that could turn a man mad. He decided to head east first, where the noise was least prevalent. Maybe the room the men were in was low in ceiling, and that is why they were muffled. He tried the door, the doorhandle somewhat loose in his grip.
He gave it a pull. There was no give. Another pull was attempted, and the result was repeated. The door would not open. He let out a sigh of exasperation, before sneaking his way to the eastern door, his mind set on uncovering the secrets of the merchant. The door had some give, and Fethryn could open it enough to slide his body through. But to his surprise, the room above the noise, had no floor. It had rotted away, and the men, his targets, resided in one of the only rooms of the house that had not been pockmarked by dereliction and decay. He examined his options, looking down on the men. He could get closer to the men, crawl onto one of the wooden rafter beams, and hear the information he needed to that way.
He placed one foot on the rafter, and felt only slight give, a slight moan of protest being elicited from the wood. He could hear the men more clearly as he placed one foot in front of the other, a bit passing as he placed himself balanced on the rafters.
“I can definitely get you as much stock as you need. If we sell the soy flour you’ve been given at 5 golden nels for every bag, then we can definitely run the Warricks out of business, and earn you fellows nel in bulk. I can get you all you need from Warrick Farms at half their prices, for more stock. The resale price would leave you at a profit, and leave the Warricks quaking in their boots.” The merchant said as Fethryn looked down at them, the men unaware of him. They planned to steal and re-sell the Warrick Farm crop in bulk in order to bankrupt the family, and Fethryn had realised he needed to keep the Warrick steward at bay for a few breaks. So his feet shuffled. Slowly, carefully, so his presence was at least somewhat masked. He looked back, before he exited, and he had made a creak. The door was his last vestige and the men were looking up now.
He quieted his breath, their eyes piercing the darkness. He was sure they were looking right at him, mentally planning how to strangulate him and make it look like suicide. One bit passed. Two. Three. Four. They looked at his direction, but could not see him in his dark clothing, and looked back at their table.
“We really need check for bats. I don’t want to have to clean this place out more than I have to.” Said the merchant to his goons, as Fethryn exited the door to the rafters, and stood at the peak of the stairs. He could see the holes, and he deftly placed his right foot on the step below him. There was no creak. The next step, his left foot. No creak. He then stepped down a third time. A low, monotonous screech that almost wailed and revealed his presence to the still sleeping bouncer. The man hiccupped awake, blurry eyed, and did not look around. So Fethryn moved, whilst the man was in the interstice between wake and sleep. Taking it still one step at a time. Creak. Creak. Silence. Creak. He had reached the door, where the man slept, and smiled.
His mission had gone off without a-
“Uuuuuuuurgh. Huh? What were you doing up there?” The bouncer had spotted him. He did not answer, and the man began to stand up. Ferocious. Imposing. “You’re not an associate at all, are you? Boss! We have ourselves a spy!” The man roared as his hand, like a bear’s paw, swatted for the Biqaj. The Biqaj dodged the first swipe, moving his hips as the man’s paw swept past his hair, carving through like a breeze. The second swipe came the other way, and grazed the Biqaj’s cheek, sending him toward the door.
The Biqaj was thrust into the door with a large bang, alerting the merchant. “Aronmas, what is going on?” The merchant stated, seeing Fethryn now edging the lock open, edging himself to freedom. “Kryll! Espren! Get this little rat!” The merchant screeched at his bodyguards as Fethryn got the door open, quickly slamming the door behind him.
The Biqaj ran, as fast as he could, into alleyways and out of alleyways, as he could hear the merchants chasing after him. He darted across the square, spotting a storm drain. Quickly diving behind the high wall of the storm drain, next to one of the many entrances to Andaris’ sewers, he listened for the men’s footsteps. They were heavy, like soldiers. He could hear them entering the square. Searching the alleyways for him. 10 bits passed, and they gave up their search.
Fethryn smiled to himself. It was a job well done.
He walked, as fast as he could, to the Blacksmith’s Arms, where the messenger of the Warricks said to meet.
He entered the tavern, finding the messenger, and relayed the information. The messenger nodded, smiled courteously, and left.
He had told Fethryn to expect his pay soon.
