Dinadan Noir I: Cue Saxophones and Smoke
One of the perks of leading the bard guild is that you get your own office. Might be a stretch to call a former pantry at the Drunken Wench an office, but I did. The name’s Dinadan, Dinadan Whistler. I’m a sentinel for hire. Freelance investigator. Goat about town.
I’d just been released from active duty as a sentinel over a little fracas I’d been in down at Sauronan harbor. The Chief didn’t much like that I’d shown my handsome mug all across the waterfront chasing down a ring of illicit illex smugglers. Said he couldn’t use me any more. Only I wasn’t ready to quit the investigating game. So I set up an office in Nineveh and put the word on the street that I was available.
If the office had had a door, maybe I would’ve heard the trouble knocking. As it happened, trouble just walked in. And she was a looker. Legs that wouldn’t quit. Eight of them, and every one polished to a shine. There were plenty of reasons for a painted-up homarid to be in Nineveh, but none of ‘em involved coming into my office.
“You’re Dinadan Whistler?” she clicked, her voice slow and dark as cold molasses.
“Ain’t that my name painted on the door?” I replied, then remembered I didn’t have a door. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s it to ya?”
“I need your help, Mr. Whistler.”
“That much I could’ve guessed. But I’m not playin’ gigs these days. Not for hire, anyway, Miss…?”
“Arbonne. And it is not your…musical…services I wish to engage.”
That caught my attention. “Tell me whatcha got for me then.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Try the beginning, kid, ‘casue that’s where we are.”
“I—” she hesitated. Now bugfish aren’t the easiest creatures in the world to read, but I’d put in enough hours on Wysoom to see that she was scared. Real scared.
“It’s okay. You can tell me. ‘ts why ya came here, yeah?”
“I think somebody is going to try to kill me.” she said, all in a rush.
“I ain’t the bodyguarding type, miss. Might wanna talk to a paladin.” I looked her over again, hard. “Or maybe somebody down fighter’s guild way, as I don’t think a paladin’d approve yer profession.”
Bugfish don’t blush, but they do get indignant. “I don’t need you to play bodyguard. I need you to figure out who wants me dead.”
I shook my head. “You know who wants you dead, or you wouldn’t be here asking for protection. I can tell you’re savvy enough, but don’t try and put one past me.”
If she’d had shoulders, she’d have looked over them then. “It’s Family business.”
“Family…or Family?”
“Family.”
That was what we professionals call a “complicating factor.” And by “complicating factor” we mean “something that’s like to get you croaked.” I leaned back in my chair, kicked my hooves up onto the desk. “Lady, why would I want to get involved in Family business?”
“I can pay—”
“Look around? Does it seem like I need money?”
Her eyes swiveled to take in the bare spots on the walls where pantry shelves had once stood. “Yes.”
That stung. “Well. I don’t. Not particularly. I’m not interested in getting myself killed.”
“You’re Gifted. How bad could it be?”
“You’ve never died before, have you. It ain’t pleasant. Not worth any amount of gold short of ‘obscene,’ and I expect that if you had that kind of money, you’d be hiring yourself a bodyguard instead of showin’ up here.”
“Well…there’s more than gold…”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, lady, but crustaceans aren’t my type.”
“There’s this.”
She produced, from somewhere, a cloth-wrapped bundle. Getting interesting. I’ve never quite understood how homarids manage without fingers, but she got it unwrapped. The cloth fell away to reveal a rather homely chunk of jade, carved into the likeness of a grinning monkey.
“And whose mantel is this supposed to be uglying up?”
“It’s from Sosel. Really old.”
I did this little thing that I do with my eyes, opened them up to magic. “Not an enchantment on the thing.”
“It’s more valuable than it looks, Mister Whistler. It’s a key.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The bard in me—and that’s most of me, by the by—was mighty interested. “A key to…?”
“I don’t know.”
I mulled it over. I didn’t much like the idea of poking around Crypt, butting heads with organized crime. I didn’t much like her chances of surviving the Family’s attention, though. And ever since Sikkar let me out of the templar guild, I’d had a hard time letting things like that slide. “Damn me for an idiot samaritan, but I’ll take your case. No promises, kid. Best case scenario, I figure out who it is in particular that wants to shuffle you from your mortal coil, and maybe even why. Then it’ll be up to you to deal with it. Or find somebody else who will.”
The homarid did the strange bob that served her race as a nod. “That will be a start.”
“You have someplace other than home to go? Can’t imagine it’d be safe.”
“Abarack. A…gentleman…there owes me.”
“You’d better hustle yourself that direction, then. I’ll make some inquiries, meet you tomorrow to follow up. Your…friend, he have an address?”
“Seventeen and a half Obsidian Circle.”
I’d just been released from active duty as a sentinel over a little fracas I’d been in down at Sauronan harbor. The Chief didn’t much like that I’d shown my handsome mug all across the waterfront chasing down a ring of illicit illex smugglers. Said he couldn’t use me any more. Only I wasn’t ready to quit the investigating game. So I set up an office in Nineveh and put the word on the street that I was available.
If the office had had a door, maybe I would’ve heard the trouble knocking. As it happened, trouble just walked in. And she was a looker. Legs that wouldn’t quit. Eight of them, and every one polished to a shine. There were plenty of reasons for a painted-up homarid to be in Nineveh, but none of ‘em involved coming into my office.
“You’re Dinadan Whistler?” she clicked, her voice slow and dark as cold molasses.
“Ain’t that my name painted on the door?” I replied, then remembered I didn’t have a door. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s it to ya?”
“I need your help, Mr. Whistler.”
“That much I could’ve guessed. But I’m not playin’ gigs these days. Not for hire, anyway, Miss…?”
“Arbonne. And it is not your…musical…services I wish to engage.”
That caught my attention. “Tell me whatcha got for me then.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Try the beginning, kid, ‘casue that’s where we are.”
“I—” she hesitated. Now bugfish aren’t the easiest creatures in the world to read, but I’d put in enough hours on Wysoom to see that she was scared. Real scared.
“It’s okay. You can tell me. ‘ts why ya came here, yeah?”
“I think somebody is going to try to kill me.” she said, all in a rush.
“I ain’t the bodyguarding type, miss. Might wanna talk to a paladin.” I looked her over again, hard. “Or maybe somebody down fighter’s guild way, as I don’t think a paladin’d approve yer profession.”
Bugfish don’t blush, but they do get indignant. “I don’t need you to play bodyguard. I need you to figure out who wants me dead.”
I shook my head. “You know who wants you dead, or you wouldn’t be here asking for protection. I can tell you’re savvy enough, but don’t try and put one past me.”
If she’d had shoulders, she’d have looked over them then. “It’s Family business.”
“Family…or Family?”
“Family.”
That was what we professionals call a “complicating factor.” And by “complicating factor” we mean “something that’s like to get you croaked.” I leaned back in my chair, kicked my hooves up onto the desk. “Lady, why would I want to get involved in Family business?”
“I can pay—”
“Look around? Does it seem like I need money?”
Her eyes swiveled to take in the bare spots on the walls where pantry shelves had once stood. “Yes.”
That stung. “Well. I don’t. Not particularly. I’m not interested in getting myself killed.”
“You’re Gifted. How bad could it be?”
“You’ve never died before, have you. It ain’t pleasant. Not worth any amount of gold short of ‘obscene,’ and I expect that if you had that kind of money, you’d be hiring yourself a bodyguard instead of showin’ up here.”
“Well…there’s more than gold…”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, lady, but crustaceans aren’t my type.”
“There’s this.”
She produced, from somewhere, a cloth-wrapped bundle. Getting interesting. I’ve never quite understood how homarids manage without fingers, but she got it unwrapped. The cloth fell away to reveal a rather homely chunk of jade, carved into the likeness of a grinning monkey.
“And whose mantel is this supposed to be uglying up?”
“It’s from Sosel. Really old.”
I did this little thing that I do with my eyes, opened them up to magic. “Not an enchantment on the thing.”
“It’s more valuable than it looks, Mister Whistler. It’s a key.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The bard in me—and that’s most of me, by the by—was mighty interested. “A key to…?”
“I don’t know.”
I mulled it over. I didn’t much like the idea of poking around Crypt, butting heads with organized crime. I didn’t much like her chances of surviving the Family’s attention, though. And ever since Sikkar let me out of the templar guild, I’d had a hard time letting things like that slide. “Damn me for an idiot samaritan, but I’ll take your case. No promises, kid. Best case scenario, I figure out who it is in particular that wants to shuffle you from your mortal coil, and maybe even why. Then it’ll be up to you to deal with it. Or find somebody else who will.”
The homarid did the strange bob that served her race as a nod. “That will be a start.”
“You have someplace other than home to go? Can’t imagine it’d be safe.”
“Abarack. A…gentleman…there owes me.”
“You’d better hustle yourself that direction, then. I’ll make some inquiries, meet you tomorrow to follow up. Your…friend, he have an address?”
“Seventeen and a half Obsidian Circle.”
posted by J.D.J.P. at 8:47 AM
0 comments
