Dinadan Noir V: Swagger

After a good ponder, I decided it was time to put on my swagger suit and head back to Crypt. Broad-brimmed hat, leather jerkin and leggings. I thought about an eye-patch for effect, but decided against it. Dagger and broadsword both on my belt, humming and glowing. The Drak was too unsubtle for a job like this. Enchanted blades would have to do. Just because I knew I wasn’t a particularly brilliant swordsman didn’t mean others would. I also managed to get a brace of throwing knives stashed about my person, some in obvious places, some not. The point was to look as dangerous as possible. Never mind that I’d sung my way literally through Pandemonium before. Some folks won’t pay attention unless you point sharp metal bits their way.

Playing the bravo is good fun. Bards don’t often get to throw their weight around—not that I’m heavy, mind. Whip-thin and resilient, that’s me. Anyway. There’s something entertaining about staring down bruisers who, if they stopped to think about it, could pound you flat in a fistfight, about making a hard line of your mouth and steel of your eyes when—inside—you’re laughing at the gulls. If push came to shove, of course, I’d be chucking spells, not knives. And part of the reason I could pull off the bluff was that it wasn’t really a bluff.

Digression is a professional hazard.

I put on my swagger suit and willed myself to Igneous. If you’ve never been there, keep it that way. The place is all twisted windows, crooked walls, and the muted stink of death. And chilly. I half-think that’s why so many undead call the place home. It’s always cool in Igneous, not quite cold, but cool enough to slow down rot. Never mind that the place is crawling with necromancers who’ll patch up your lifeless husk to your exact specifications. I drew plenty of stares just for being on the living side of the grave. I stared right back, a hairsbreadth grin letting them know I meant business.

Igneous is an easy place to get jumped, and a hard place to get found. It took me the better part of an hour just to pick the right bar, and I dropped two cutpurses and a gorgon mugger in that span. All, might I add, without recourse to a single blast of sound. I might not have been a brilliant swordsman, but I was good enough to take down gutter trash. The fellows in the Worm’s Abode were a step above gutter trash, though, and I made sure I picked out all the exits when I walked into the place.

There’s something obvious but indefinable about a Family-run establishment. Or at least the Family-run establishments that also catered to their own. Organized crime is different on every world, mind—in Suthnas, if you walk into a place and a bunch of similar-tinted djinn sharing hookahs turn simultaneously to stare you down, you know you need to watch your step. The Family on Crypt is a mixed-up lot. More than a few dwarves, the occasional drow, various Elder races…it was more about their bearing. Even the squid-faced yaag-nesh walked or floated with a certain swagger that the unaffiliated criminals never managed. Judging by the looks and the expressions that greeted me when I walked in the door, at least half the bodies in the Abode were Family, and the rest were probably in the Family’s pocket.

It was exactly the kind of trouble I was looking for.

I sauntered up to the bar as if I owned the place. The barkeep was the tallest dwarf I’d ever seen. He came all the way up to my chin. Never mind that his arms were as thick as my chest, I could stare down at him. And I did. “Whiskey. And don’t try and pass off your mushroom spirits on the goat.” The dwarf grunted and fished a bottle out from a dusty cabinet behind him. Behind me, silence gathered like a storm. Somebody was going to get hurt soon, and the dwarf clearly expected it to be me.

I turned around, and in a gesture I’m shamed to admit I’d practiced numerous times, thumbed my sword two inches out of its scabbard. Props make a costume, and the blessed light even two inches of the enchanted steel shed had the desired effect. “Anybody really want to see the rest of it?”

Somebody would, I knew. The weakest, or the stupidest, or the one who felt like he was going to lose face. Turned out to be another dwarf. I was disappointed; he didn’t try to say anything witty, just pulled a broad-bladed knife and charged…from across the room. Just what I needed. I made a show of sipping the whiskey before I finished drawing the sword. When the dwarf got close enough, I spat whiskey in his eyes, stepped, and jammed my sword into his side in about as long as it takes to tell it. He was whimpering and working on crawling away as I wiped the blade on his cloak, sheathed it, and deliberately turned my back on the crowd again.

“I’m looking for Aagren,” I said to nobody in particular.

“Aagren’s a tough one to find, goat.” the barkeep rumbled. “What makes ye think he’d let himself get found by you?”

“What,” I said slowly, “makes you think I’d let him stay hid?”

The dwarf (the one who wasn’t busy bleeding out) grunted. “He’s got an office on Biotite, south of Fifth. Storefront’s a cobbler.”

“Thanks. Sorry for the mess.” I slapped a platinum piece on the bar, wondering how much ahead of me word would get to Aagren, and who might try and take more than a pale coin as payment for inconvenience.

Dinadan Noir IV: Guido and Nunzio

It wasn’t long before the consequences of my little foray into the ‘Phile showed up on my doorstep. They were big, both of ‘em, dangerous looking even for thuuls. They shouldered their way into my office, quite literally bringing darkness with them.

“Lumen.” I was pleased to see them squint, not so pleased to see that they were wearing some kind of goggles that presumably let them see.

“Alright then, gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit.”

They looked at each other, then back at me, grinning. “Youse have poked yer nose where it don’t belong, goat-boy. We’s here to ‘splain that to ya in terms ya can unnerstand.” They cracked their knuckles in unison.

“Terms that I can understand, eh?” I cracked my knuckles, too, making a point to do it as daintily as possible. “I can recommend several good elocution coaches.”

Guido turned to Nunzio—I never did catch their names, but I still think of ‘em this way—and grunted. “You want that we should commence to wreckin’ your place, goat? Maybe start wit’ ‘dat thick head o’ yours?”

“Gentlemen, I don’t have the honor of comprehending the message you wish to convey.” Nonsense, of course. I knew exactly what they were about.

“This ain’t a convoy. This is a message from Upal Toth.”

Upal Toth. Should have expected that name sooner or later. A Yaag-nesh like Aagren, and the most powerful uncle left in the Borales Family. At least it wasn’t Gero—a six hundred year old vampire mage was more than I wanted to deal with. Toth was just a psychic thug with a knack for finding opportunities. “And what exactly is Mister Toth’s interest in my nose?”

“‘Avin it broke real good if you don’t keep it to yerself.”

“Sorry, gents. A job’s a job. And I was just out looking for new gigs. Brothels don’t pay much, but sometimes the fringe benefits are worth the hassle.”

“We know dat stinkin’ crab girl was here before she got whacked. We know she was a tag at da Phile. We can put five an’ two t’gether. You stay outta Family business.”

“Five and two, huh?”

“Five,” he flexed his taloned fingers, “an’ two.” He curled them into a fist and showed it along with its companion.

“Ah. You came for piano lessons. I don’t generally recommend the wormtooth outside for beginners, but why don’t you go out and have a go.”

The spiky fists came down my desk. “Stop playin’ dumb!”

I grinned and let the amusement drop out of my voice. “At least in my case it’s just play. Go home, gentlemen.”

“You wanna play? You wanna play!?” Nunzio this time, positively steaming.

“I really think you ought to look into those elocution lessons. Now. The gentleman you want to talk to is named Ardo Caspar, a vulpin in—”

They started to come around my desk, murder in their eyes. Not for the first time, I wondered if I had pushed things too far. I gave up grabbing for words and reached for something a little less subtle. My Drakontousia’s roar was certainly part of their vocabulary. Never mind that there were two of them, and that there wasn’t much room to swing it in the office. When somebody points a chunk of undead dragon at you, you pay attention. “You can tell your boss you delivered your message. You’ve done your job. Nobody’s gotta get their blood all over my floorboards. Run on home, and don’t bother coming back.”

They backed off a few steps. “Youse goin’ to regret dis, goat.”

“Probably.” I nodded.

They backed away. “You ain’t seen the last of of us!”

It was true, of course. Idiots were easily startled. But they would be back, and in greater numbers.

Dinadan Noir III: Phile Under "Murder"

The first thing I noticed about the ‘Phile was the smell. Or rather, its complete and utter lack. Bordellos (and I’ve seen a few in my more usual professional capacity) are usually drenched in perfume and incense and whatnot to cover the stink of bodies doing what bodies do. The ‘Phile, tucked into one of Borales’ upper, more spacious caverns, had the usual discreet red lantern over the door. It had the usual overstuffed, over-velveted furniture. The eyes that glanced my way when the curtain parted had the usual studied indifference. But the lack of, well, any smell, really, set me on edge.

I was happy to note that the hostess was actually breathing, and not just pretending to out of habit. (Crypt’s a strange place that way.) She was pretty enough, a boelir who had a good foot and a half on me…putting her artfully arranged and brocaded bosom just above my eye level, and making the reality of her breathing very apparent. “Welcome to the ‘Phile, Master Satyr. We don’t often see your people.” She was a true tenor, startlingly clear.

“Well, truth be told, miss, we’re not overfond of caves, and that’s all you’ve got here.”

“Do you suggest that exploring in the dark is unpleasant?”

I chuckled. “Not necessarily, lady, but I hope you don’t take offense.”

“Far from it. You will find that we take offense at little but violence, and we have even a place for that.” Her cyclopean wink managed ‘disturbing’ and ‘suggestive’ at the same time.

“That’s why I came.”

“Really? You don’t strike me as the type.”

“Violence done to one of yours, I believe. Did you keep under your roof a homarid by the name of Arbonne?”

“Arbonne? What happened?” Alarm…and resignation.

“She’s dead, miss. Ran afoul of the Family.”

“I see.” She frowned, gestured at a woman who, during her living years, had probably been quite beautiful, then beckoned me forward. “Why don’t we talk about it in my office.” The undead woman bowed and discreetly took up a position at the door as we ducked into one of the side passages.

Her office, it turned out, was not much of a step up from mine. A plain desk, a few chairs. A moderately priced illusionary wall concealing what was no doubt a safe. For me, it was spacious, but any of the ‘verse’s larger denizens would likely have found it cramped. I waited a moment before taking a seat. Put my back to the door, but I was hoping any more acute forms of trouble would wait.

“I suspected this would happen sooner or later.”

“Oh? Arbonne had a habit of getting into trouble?”

The madame shook her head. “Not Arbonne. Aagren. You know of him?”

I went fishing in the waters of memory. “Yaag-nesh, yeah? Doesn’t he go with the Igneous crew?”

“The ‘Phile is neutral territory, master satyr.” I appreciated the careful way we avoided learning each other’s name. “We cater to rather…specialized…tastes. All variety of them, as a matter of fact. The unliving and the elder races have centuries to tire of the more normal forms of intimate attention, and few of them are particularly concerned with those to begin with. There are not many places in the Retroverse where such tastes can be pursued in tasteful surrounds.”

“Ah. That explains the lack of smell.”

“And the lack of sound. We keep both dampened with magic. Our clients prefer not to be distracted from their unique delectations.”

“And the Family doesn’t push for a cut?”

“Even when they’re squabbling, members of the Family leave the ‘Phile alone. They are as prone to specialized tastes as any, if not more so. My people are off limits.”

“Except, apparently, for Arbonne.”

She nodded grimly. “Except for Arboone.”

“And Aagren was one of her…devotees?”

Again, she nodded. “We always run the risks of clients becoming…attached. A hazard of our profession that, for us, is perhaps magnified. Given their predilections, our guests seldom have the option of pursuing more usual relationships. Not that many of them are interested in such. Aagren has been a client here for decades, but had not proved a problem until he began seeing Arbonne.”

“This was how long ago?”

“Perhaps a year and a half.”

My turn to nod. “He wanted to be closer. Did she reciprocate?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Says something, I guess, that she came running to me and not him when she got wind of trouble. Any chance Aagren could have put the hit out on her, do the jilted lover routine?”

The hostess considered this for a few moments. “I doubt it. He’d become foolish for her, which is why I suspected trouble would follow.”

“When was the last time he paid a visit?”

“Three days ago.”

“Anything unusual about it?”

“He seemed excited about something, but he often seemed excited when he came to see Arbonne.”

I wondered, then, about the jade monkey that was sitting in a pile of odds and ends at my tower. “He bring her presents?”

“Often, but that is hardly unusual. Our guests do not lack funds; gifts provide them a means to show their appreciation without the crassness of sacks of coin.”

“Did Aagren have a routine with her?”

She shrugged. “Not particularly. Who can fathom the mind of a yaag-nesh? He would arrive at all hours. He never tarried in the common room. I think he may have been visiting Arbonne more frequently in the last few fortnights.” She pulled a heavy ledger from her desk. “Yes. Every day or so.”

“He was anxious about something?”

“Or in lust. Or having a good business run. We try not to speculate on our guests’ motives.”

“He ever see anybody else?”

“No. Only Arbonne. At least since she’s been here. Her predecessor retired and passed on of old age. The crabfolk are not particularly long-lived.”

I drummed my fingers on the chair for a moment. “And Arbonne drew a shorter straw than most. Any idea why the Family might want her dead?”

“No. Only her association with Aagren. We are quite good at shutting our eyes and ears to each other’s activity, master satyr. It is better for all of us if the Family doesn’t intrude on our operations and we stay out of theirs.”

I fished out a card, pressed my name into it. “If Aagren shows up, give him this for me. And you can probably expect a visit from the greencoats before too long.”

Her eyebrow rose a bit as she read the card. “A real bard, the Storyteller, no less. This seems a bit…unusual for one such as yourself. Do you typically go out of your way to investigate murders and tangle with organized crime?”

“Everybody needs a hobby, miss.”

“Indeed. Most choose hobbies of a less dangerous sort.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a hobby’s gotten me killed, miss. The Gifted have to find some way to pass the time.”

“Please see to it that your pastime does not get any more of my people killed.”

“Believe what you want, but I try and keep idiotic risks and their consequences entirely to myself.” I stood. “I can find my own way out.”