90th Trial, Zi'Da, 711AV
Continued from here
"Why the fuck can't you find him?"
Rian was sure there was a way to answer that which wouldn't result in him getting punched. Some clever assemblage of words that would soothe an angry, unimpressed old man and grant him a window to scuttle off. Jumping out a window, that was another option. Probably preferable at this point. But Rian, like so many other frozen by hesitation and fear, pondered too long to actually bother finding the words and so after a few trills-
"Youse fuckin' deaf, boy?"
"N-No, Mister Vorund, it's just..." Come on, think. Think! "We've got feelers out, y'know? Alla' scum onna' street're listenin', watchin', soon as he pokes his head up-"
Hell's Fuck, these are the sort of cunts I have defending me.
Bangun Vorund rubbed his face and seemed to feel every one of the lined age had carved into it. Along with a couple that came from a razor blade. Matter of fact, he needed to find one of those. It had been two solid trials since he'd been out of the warehouse and his face was starting to resemble a map of Etzos, only with a spiky forest growing out of it. Two trial of eating and drinking and pissing and sleeping among these broad, muscled, clueless bastards. A dozen of them, sleeping and guarding him in shifts. Monitoring everyone that walked near the building, let alone inside. Not to mention dozens, scores of others, out there from the Underground to the Com'See, scoruing the city for one man.
The lord of the South Side sighed. That was the problem, though. Finding a mob or an army was easy. Tracking down a single soul amidst millions? Even with magic working for you, that was difficult. Doubly so when you were after a man who'd been hunting down single souls for going on twenty years, and thus knew all the tricks. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting Rian waffle on. Fates, what he'd give to have Ilos back. But his lieutenant was needed elsewhere, keeping shop, as it were, until he could show his face again.
He won't come for anyone but me, he told himself. I gave the order, and he knows it.
"Makin' it a right cunt t'have a chat with you, Kas."
"S-Sir?"
The old man didn't even answer him; he just started rapping off orders. More guards, more people looking, more money offered... no like he couldn't afford it, but Rian was starting to think it was a bit much. He scratched his red hair as he nodded, never stopping, head bobbing as obsequiously as he could. There were two big lads outside the door and he had no desire to have Mister Vorund snap his fingers and order them to twist his arms and legs off. But still, with all that self-preservation clamoring in his ears, the young hoodlum still said-
"Sir... um... why ain't the order t'kill him?"
He didn't need to repeat the question. Nor did Vorund need to ask why he was querying him. The old man scowling from behind the carved desk was as sharp as the blades he carried, unseen and honed every day. Since he was in short pants and wiping his arse with gutter trash, Rian had known the man in front of him to be shrewd, ruthless, and most importantly, patient. He nurtured talent and let it grow. He allowed enemies he couldn't directly defeat to become complacent, cocky, and fall into his lap or die off to another's hand. He'd heard the stories about Kasoria, the Raggedy Man, Bangun Vorund's prized and secret slayer. Known by his name and deeds and legend... but never his face.
If he'd turned, why let him live?
"Because," Vorund said eventually, accent flattening as his words came out slow, and venomous. "I don't throw something away until I know I can't use it anymore. Now fuck off and find him."
The boy left and Vorund walked over to the cabinet. A double, a triple... yeah, he'd earned that. Wasn't like he was sitting in here, smoking and boozing and getting sozzled in his paranoia. He was just being cautious. Kasoria would be found, and brought to heel. But until then, he had to be... practical. The man was wounded and bloodied and angry. He was a smart one, despite what everyone thought, even himself. He could read those ugly, callused faces of the underworld like a book. See the patterns of blood and betrayal and know the fingers pulling their strings. He'd know who those men were, the chaff he'd tossed a few coins to and those pair of real, seasoned scratchers who were hired to make sure things stuck. Both of them now dead. One with his head run through twice - although, knowing Sven as he did, Vorund thought that was likely necessary - and the other barely human anymore, once they put the pieces back together.
But no Kasoria. No Raggedy Man. Just stories and rumors and silence. Silence most of all, for five - fucking - trials.
He cursed into his glass, admonishing him for that silly speech to the girl. He should have gutted her without a world, let her be another maimed casualty of that riot Kasoria had unleashed. But no, he had to make his point, he had to make-
There was a dull thud beyond the door that shook him from his reverie. Fates, he'd almost nodded off. He shook his head and put down the glass, straightening himself a little behind the desk. Wouldn't do, being slovenly in front of the boys. By the time it was opening he'd "hem-hemed" some life back into his voice and-
"Tell 'em not now, Noel-"
-it wasn''t Noel. Noel was slumped over, half-hidden next to the door, and very still. The one that had made him that way closed the door behind him. Then he locked it.
"... been lookn' for yeh, Kas."