Thar Shaddin

Jasmina was taken up short. No longer did the doctor's words seem like idle blather. Now, he seemed insightful. A little too insightful. Almost like he knew her.

"Yes, I am lost," she said softly, little more than a whisper. Jasmina felt dazed, overwhelmed.

Abruptly, she shook it off, and her voice became strong and confident again. "I must trust someone, and though you are prone to riddles in your speech, you seem more reliable than most. So I will do as you say. I will speak to Mister Salliniari. I make no promises that I will stay. Only that I will speak to him. From there... perhaps my road will go in the way that you see it."

Jasmina gave the doctor an awkward little nod, really just a duck of the head, and made her way over to Salliniari. She stayed back slightly, waiting on the outskirts of his field of vision until he wasn't engaged in conversation, then stepped a little closer.

"Sir? I would offer you my condolences on this backset... I mean, setback... to your business. It is my hope that the damage can soon be repaired without lasting harm done."

It wasn't much of a speech, but it was the best she could muster on short notice-- at least when she was reduced to using words rather than the more freeing medium of dance. Jasmina doubted it would 'temper his rage' much if at all, but perhaps it was a step in that direction.

Dorcas's head bobbed abruptly as she pulled herself out of a daze. She was hearing what was going on, but the smell of incense had made her groggy and she needed to stay awake. She dug her thumbnail into her own thigh to distract herself from dozing off.

Berbiezu's voice was mesmerizing, somehow. Dorcas felt the timbre of it in her collarbone, but could hardly make our or make sense of the woman's words.

She was only vaguely aware of the jar Chris had picked up. It sounded heavy when it rolled, but she was stuck in reverie looking at Berbiezu. Her eyelashes were like nothing Dorcas had ever seen. Then the woman was hunched over, wiping at the edges of the Cerv man's sort-of sealed wound with the dangling fringe of her shawl. Dorcas wrinkled her nose. The fringe tangled with the application of gooey, drying blood.

Berbiezu took a few shuffling steps back from Cervantes and swiveled her head upon Chrishton. Her buggy eyes widened as he seemed to refuse her request most rudely. Someone so cocksure would be ideal for a task so ethically murky as what she was asking, if he would only get on board. Berbiezu's speech was soft and cloying, her manner gentle; she was not uninitiated in the art of persuasion.

Dorcas glanced sharply at Chris and wondered what exactly it was that he was refusing. She tried to piece together the funny things Berbiezu had said and couldn't settle on anything that made sense. She poked Chris's side with her elbow. Although Dorcas had no argument in favor of whatever it is they were supposed to do, she was irritated with Chris for refusing it on her behalf.

Berbiezu had shuffled back to her jingling cabinet. Tucked on one of the lower shelves in the cabinet was a row of floppy little cloth dolls, each no larger than a man's palm. It would be hard to see from the couch, but a few of the dolls were grimy and touched up with little accessories here and there, and a few of the dolls were cleaner, their stuffing more resilient.

Berbiezu leaned into the cabinet and daubed a smudge of Cervantes's blood onto a new doll. She left the doll lying prone on the vanity table in front of the cabinet and made her way back the several paces to the couch.

"I don't know how you weigh favors, my new friend," she directed at Chrishton, "but I hesitate to characterize what I have done as 'little.' I think you're . . . bluffing . . . if you would balance your . . . companion's safety with playing with locks."

She gave a small, weary sigh that ended on a contented upturn of tone. "If you are of a mind to haggle, I suppose we can do that. If you're unwilling to retrieve the girl for me, I can make do with some piece of her. Hair? . . . fluid?" She gave a pointed look back at her cabinet of dolls. "A tiny bit of blood would be most effective.

"Additionally, I think Mister Fairscales might have some toys he could perhaps part with, to sweeten the pot. That is . . . if you are of a mind to haggle."

Shivshin, in the corner, twisted his mouth in acknowledgment and annoyance as he stroked the long, shiny barrel of some sort of weapon that leaned up against the wall.

The doctor paused again and took another breath, seeming to block out not the rest of their surroundings, but whatever it was that he saw when he zoned out. The room around them was still relatively hectic, but to him it was far less of a mess than Jasmina's impasse and all the possible events that could transpire.

"You needn't make any promises to me, Jasmina. I know that I can be... cryptic. I should learn to say what needs to be said. I wish only the best for you, and I will do what I can."

He responded to her nod with a smile, though it faded quickly after she walked away. His own inability to handle uncertainty was bothering him on a spiritual level. If things went badly because he failed to guide people on the right course, what good was he?

The nagging question of the human girl and her burly friend lingered. They would be back, and he knew it.

Salliniari was still arguing with Guido when Jasmina got to him. Guido must have gotten a word in at some point, because Salliniari was disagreeing with him ferociously.

"... to pollute this city with that kind of filth after everything we've done here! They should rot in fury's agora with that kind of ingratitude. Let Benshi try something stupid, our men have never had trouble handling him with or without idiots like Kleos."

Guido remained silent, of course, but drew Salliniari's attention away from the argument by looking at Jasmina. Salliniari's gaze followed. Seeing her made him clamp down on his foul mouth, at the very least. She didn't have much to offer, but he was receptive. Beautiful women had a way of making him receptive and her innocence was a stark contrast with everyone and everything he dealt with on a daily basis. She still didn't know all the horrible things that went on behind the scenes.

"Well at least you're still here." He huffed. "I thought you ran away with everyone else. The only lasting damage there's going to be is going to be to that runt shapeshifter and that arrogant son of a bitch accomplice."

Guido made a series of gestures, some of which must have been part of a makeshift language that he had arranged with Sallinari because the paunchy businessman understood all of it. Guido pointed at himself and then made a few motions, one of which was a drinking motion directed at Sallinari. Sallinari's response was as close to a growl as he was capable of, though it came out more like a guttural grumble. Guido responded with a few more signs, then pointed at himself, and then to a random direction in the room.

"I'm not going to sit back while these vermin are crawling around my city!" Came Sallinari's response.

* * *

Dorcas nudged Chrishton but he wasn't going to fill her in. She didn't need to know. He would figure out some sort of lie later on.

Berbeizu then proceeded to wipe a smudge of Cervante's blood onto a doll as though she didn't care if he saw it or not. Either she thought he was as stupid and ignorant as he acted, and that he wouldn't know or care about the implications of such an action, or she thought he wouldn't grab her and rip her head off there and then for daring to do such a thing in front of him. He was dangerously close to choosing the latter option, but decided to let the witch show her hand before he bit it off.

He did not keep eye contact with the doll long enough to look like he gave a shit about the thing. Instead, he looked at the squat gnome and the promise of a new toy as a reward. Of course Chrishton was just haggling. Even an ignorant oaf with a foul mouth knew how to be greedy.

The side of Chrishton's mouth curled up. He looked like he got what he wanted from Berbiezu.

"There, see? That's more like it. Ain't nothin' free in life. Y'gimme that gun, an' a portable lantern, an' I'll get ya what ya want. Hair's fuckin' easy t'get anyway. I get more'n that, an' I expect more pay, got it?"

Jasmina shifted awkwardly. She wasn't sure how to respond, or even if she should. If she was intruding, perhaps she should retreat again and come back later?

Salliniari seemed more or less pleased to see her, though. Or at least pleased that she hadn't gone, which wasn't quite the same thing. The former would mean her particular presence was valued, while the latter was more a point of pride.

"I did not intend to depart, Mister Salliniari," Jasmina replied in the brief gap while she had his attention rather than Guido. "Only to get myself out of the way of those who could actually help. I always intended to return when... when it seemed I was needed."

And now she was back, but 'needed' still appeared too strong a word. She still had no idea what she ought to be doing here, and so far Salliniari hadn't enlightened her. Jasmina tried to make sense of Guido's signs, if only to avoid an offer of aid that would duplicate his efforts.

The drinking motion gave her a push. If Guido was suggesting a drink for Salliniari, but the boss didn't want to take the time, then perhaps she could help in that area.

"Sir, do you need some water? Or perhaps something stronger? If there is anything else... I would be happy to provide what I can."

Within reason, she silently added in her own mind.

Berbiezu dabbed at an invisible bit of spittle at the corner of her mouth. She narrowly avoided smudging her own cheek with Cervantes's blood from her shawl. She stared at Chrishton with her head inclined downward--it looked as if the weight of it was getting hard for her to hold up on her frail neck--for several seconds before she completed their agreement with a closing statement: "And if you bring less, then you'll pay. There's a nice agreement now. Nothing is free."

Berbiezu started to back away to give the group ample room to get up from her couch. She rolled her head in Dorcas's direction as she scooted back. "Not even for you," she added with no touch of kindness. Dorcas's jaw dropped with indignation, but she had no retort to such an unexpected rudeness.

Cervantes's back would at least feel no distinct pain by this point, with the numbness extending an inch or two in depth into his flesh, and also a few inches in a perimeter around the wound. Beyond that, and the sterile seal the tarlike salve provided, it was up to his body to improve its own condition. The sensation would be not uncomfortable, but probably strange.

Despite his situation, Berbiezu was not going to show them much patience. She rapped the floor a few times with one of her canes when Shivshin returned with a standard, though downsized, lantern. Night had fallen deeply by now.

Dorcas, shaking her head disapprovingly all the while, plucked her cat from the floor and made herself the first to the doorway that led to the stairs. Shivshin scowled and reluctantly nudged his long-barreled mechanical cannon towards her with his elbow. She declined by hasty retreat.

After she had started down the stairs, the gnome turned his leaded gaze on Chrishton, expecting him to take the light and the gun.

Berbiezu also shuffled over in the direction of the doorway, in not-so-subtle indication that she was ready to see them out. "Go on now. By morning, please," she said as sweetly as she would have sent a beloved child off to school.

"Oh!" Berbiezu's heart-shaped face bobbed down and up as she remembered something. "If you please, hair from near the hips would be most satisfactory. Lovely. Perfection . . . " She smiled at Chrishton--rather squinted pleasantly, as her mouth didn't move well that way--"I can tell you are the type who is eager to please, is why I ask."

"One of our bubble brained healers has gotten it into Guido's head that I have heart problems. Our primary place of business is directly assaulted by some pathetic urchin working for the Tarsis, and this one" Salliniari threw a hand at Guido emphatically and began directing his vocalizations at him rather than Jasmina, "is telling me I should go relax and have a drink. I'll go have that cock sucking drink, but I won't be able to relax until I have that vermin's head on a pike. Put every fucking man down to the last cockroach we have on that and do it now. I'll deal with the rest of those crab hunting drug addicts later."

Guido nodded. He understood what had to be done, but his concerns were justifiably focused on handling Salliniari's rage rather than a pair of troublemakers. Like the doctor, he knew a lot about what might happen and what was going on behind the scenes. The optics of Salliniari's situation were far worse than the physical reality of one dead Xianian mage and a collapsed ceiling. He wanted to save his friend and his business.

Guido left, and Salliniari started leading Jasmina out the front door. They would begin removing the corpse of the dead mage soon, and it would not be pretty.

"You will come with me someplace quieter, yes?" He asked Jasmina. "Help keep this old man's heart from bursting."

Outside everyone did their best to accommodate the two of them. The street had started to clear. Most of the onlookers, satisfied that whatever had happened was past, had dispersed. The local constabulary made sure that things happened in an orderly fashion, and there were men around to handle everything so that Salliniari didn't have to.

A coach was already waiting a few steps away for him. Big enough to seat four people comfortably, he held open the door for Jasmina.

* * *

Chrishton's mood was unpredictable. It was nothing new for someone like Dorcas to see the way he navigated dire straights like life was an amusement park ride, only to show his serious side when it was necessary. For someone who didn't know him, though, the social maneuvers he pulled out of the blue could be very offsetting.

At first he kept smiling, like the arrangement Beribiezu was coming to was both fun and beneficial for him. She already knew Cervantes was important to him, yet he looked like he thought things were going just fine. Berbiezu's proposal was good. He accepted it, thought it was easy, and was confident that things would turn out just fine.

With casual grace, he took the lantern and the gun while tossing the gnome a wink. The gun was, apparently, quite the toy for Chrishton to get his hands on. Surely it made his part of the deal sweet enough to keep him happy.

Berbiezu's request that he be back by morning was just fine. Her joke about what time of man he was was funny and truthful enough to make him laugh. Yes, of course he was eager to please, and he would do everything she wanted him to with no trouble at all... Until a moment before he was to step out the front door. He stopped, and rather than leave, he closed the distance between himself and the little gnome.

While still wearing a toothy grin, he issued his warning as though all his enjoyment was false pleasure.
"I'll pluck out yer eyes, tie y'up, an' fuck y'up the ass 'till ya bleedin', floppin' sack o' dog meat if ya so much as think o' fuckin' with me."

With that he slapped the gnome on his shoulder and headed out of the place. Berbiezu didn't need to get a warning. She wore the pants in that household. It was the gnome he didn't want squealing to the police.

Once safely outside, he placed a hand on Dorcas' shoulder and diligently checked the street for anyone who might notice him.

"Congrats, girly. Y'didna freak out or nothin'."

Jasmina was slightly uncertain for a moment. Was leaving the premises really a good idea? What sort of privacy was intended? If Salliniari thought (or Guido thought on his behalf) that Jasmina would be providing him with some sort of sexual favour to ease his tension, it was a sorely mistaken notion. No such thing would happen. And it would be less awkward for both of them if no offer was made, than if an offer was refused.

Still, Salliniari had not yet shown any unrealistic expectations. Jasmina would dance in his establishment, would be the recipient of some harmless flirting by the men if such was desired, but nothing more-- and Salliniari seemed to appreciate that fact.

Unlikely that he wished for her company for her witty conversation. But perhaps he wanted her to dance for him, or simply to distract him. That would be harmless enough, and Jasmina saw no reason she should expect to fear. After only an instant's hesitation, Jasmina nodded and followed, and thanked him when he opened the door for her.

The carriage surprised her. She had never traveled in such a fine conveyance. Normally, she walked, or occasionally caught a ride with a cart when one was going the appropriate direction. This fancy style was new, and probably a one-time event, so she settled back in the soft cushioned seat to enjoy herself.

"Where are we going, sir?" Jasmina finally asked. The was no particular trepidation in her voice; without a reasonable level of trust, she would not have gotten into the coach in the first place. Rather, a natural curiosity prompted her to inquire.

Outside, Dorcas's gaze was already scanning the alley for danger. When Chrishton came to her side, she acknowledged his presence only by lifting her hand to pat his, on her shoulder. In contrast to her manner in the stuffy room upstairs, she now held her chin up. Her nostrils were flared, half in bracing response to the chilly night, and half to take in as much of the relatively clear air as possible.

As was Dorcas, so was her cat. The night air had piqued his energy reserves as well, and he was already trotting down the alley with purpose, his nose dotting the air as he went. This was not a stereotypically cautious cat. The only second look he gave was back towards his master, and only for a moment.

As expected, she began to follow him. Her fingers ran along Chrishton's knuckles, and she pulled his hand down off her shoulder to hold loosely, and lead him along with her. The clarity of mind she was experiencing was due not to a full and confident understanding of the situation, but rather the opposite. The girl had practically been in a stupor upstairs and had missed entirely the main points of what they were to accomplish. She was fresh and bold because she was newly out of her stupor, and because she didn't know what they'd been assigned.

The light of the lantern reflected off the dingy walls of the alley and cast a greenish glow in their radius. The cat's swaying shadow loomed ahead of him as he neared the alley's exit, and dissipated as the mouth opened onto the street from which they had first escaped.

Dorcas stopped several paces from the alley's exit and watched her cat disappear around the corner. She glanced back to identify the source of a strange glimmer in her periphery and saw the greenish light shining off the barrel of the bizarre cannon-gun. She squinted to look behind Chrishton and at the empty length of the alley. The situation was just beginning to coagulate in her mind.

"You've left him?" Her question was breathless, but even so one could hear the rise of panic in the middle of her sentence that settled to a mid-tone of something like relief.

* * *

Shivshin fidgeted for several moments after Chrishton left. His vulgar threats were nothing compared to the sense of loss of his shiny toy. It was like lending out a limb. For lack of a better way to assuage his physical void, he rubbed earnestly at his elbows as if to sprout a new limb, a new gun.

"What'd you say a thing like that for, to the lady?" he asked gruffly, changing the subject to a time before he'd given away that lovely thing.

Berbiezu was hobbling over to her vanity cabinet to inspect the bloody dolly she had prepared. "I just felt she should learn that things aren't free, before she uses her resources all up," she sighed. "I can tell she's very disrespectful of the way things work, versus the way she thinks things ought to work."

Shivshin grumbled and kicked the stumpy leg of Berbiezu's guest couch before slouching out of her room.

* * *

Outside the alley, the cat had found something to distract himself. A squalid little gutter frog blinked at him from the sticky mess of days-old tavern runoff. The cat choked on a surprised miaow, and darted a paw out to scratch the thing. It inflated itself, gave a high "phrrroooop!" and launched itself out of the gutter on clumsy legs, to land a few feet behind the cat. Then it sat still.

This was going to be the best toy.

The cat leaped after the frog, who put even more distance between them with two hops this time. Unpredictability was fun. The cat gave chase and the two made their way down the street, bouncing erratically from cobblestones and pools of streetlamp light. Once, when the cat slipped, the frog paused to taunt him with another pipsqueak croak.

There were a few obstacles, like people's legs to navigate, and further on, the frog was headed directly for the behemoth of a coach that was just loading its passengers. Perhaps the amphibian was disoriented by the vibrations of impatient horse's hooves and its own panic at being chased, but it misjudged a jump and flung itself straight at the lead horse of the coach. The frog smacked cleanly against the unsuspecting horse's breast, and the cat jumped after it.

Fortunately for Jasmina, Salliniari didn't think of her as a whore. Women like that had their place in the brothels he ran, but it was ingrained in his cultural identity that such women remained where they belonged. Sure, his employees, friends, and clients, brought women with them from Theogios knows where. That was their business. Salliniari did not flirt with whores. He only slept with them.

"Anywhere you like. I own half the buildings in Keltaris. This one was my favorite, but I have others."

He got in after her, scooting his butt along the cushions at the back of the coach until he was comfortable. Though not as paunch as Guido, Salliniari was anything but spry.

The coachman crouched and twisted around so that he could see Salliniari's face through the small window in the front of their carriage. Making eye contact with Jasmina only briefly, he knew better than to ogle his boss' women.

"Where to, boss?"

Sallinari's response was a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just... Go somewhere. Go to the Rosewalk. It's nice this time of year."

With the coach moving, he sat back in the chair, leaned his head back, and let out an exhausted sigh.

* * *

"Yeah. Not much choice, I figure. We are comin' back fer 'im, y'know."

Still too close to Berbiezu's place to be sure there wasn't some way her or the gnome could hear them, he left it at that. Dorcas still didn't understand what was going on, from what he could tell about her, so she might as well stay in the dark for the time being.

Paying little attention to the cat, which he assumed would be fine watching out for itself, he started heading cautiously down the street with Dorcas.

"We need 'oods. Y'know. Big scary lookin' 'hoods. Like monks. S'what all the sneaky criminals wear. Normally I'd use m'magic 'bout now, 'cept someone doesn'a like it. So just keep yer eyes peeled fer someone in a 'ood. I'll beat 'im up 'n take it."

His plan would be made easier if they could find a monk. Of all the monk and druid types he'd beaten up over the years, only the ones out east were any good at fighting.

That was when her cat started getting itself into trouble. He lost track of it in the crowd, but had a feeling it was going to be troublesome.

"An' where's yer fuckin' cat?"

Chrishton wanted to change. He wanted to change, consult the spirits, find the dancer girl, get some of her hair and execute his plan without being chained down by a lost and helpless companion. He needed a way to go do it quickly without something bad happening to Dorcas. Unfortunately she did not have the capacity to deal with the constabulary or Salliniari's men.

Jasmina didn't know that the Rosewalk was. She'd done some exploring of Keltaris, but she'd had no one to ask questions of, so she didn't know what anything was called. It sounded pleasant, though. Jasmina liked flowers well enough; surely everyone liked flowers.

As the coach moved, she cast about for something to say. Should she simply keep silent? Did Salliniari just want to rest? If that was the case, what was she doing here? His request for her presence seemed to indicate that she was supposed to take a more active role than warming the seat cushion.

But what was there to discuss? Should Jasmina just make smalltalk? Obviously, his mind would not be far from the events at the tavern. Was she supposed to acknowledge that, or offer a token attempt at distraction? She decided to opt for the latter.

"What is this 'Rosewalk,' sir? Is it a garden? It sounds lovely. You are teaching me much about this fascinating city."

If his answer was monosyllabic, or he didn't respond at all, she would allow the matter to drop and remain quiet until either he broke the silence, or they reached their destination.

As Dorcas walked along, she drew her shoulders in against the growing cold. There was moisture in the air, and the chill was like fingers along her bones, and a weight over her sternum. The strain was nearly as if she was already wearing a cloak, albeit a completely inhospitable one. She had grown accustomed to the cold of sleeping outside, but tonight, in the city, felt different.

The part of her mind that was fantasizing about relieving the discomfort toyed with several scenarios. She'd like to be away from Chrishton, maybe with that boy she'd been flirting with earlier and that gooey couple who liked to lean on each other, and maybe she'd lean and get some warmth. Or maybe they'd be back on the road--Chrishton wasn't so bad, after all--and they could just curl up next to a tree like before. On the road, the road had seemed like somewhere she didn't want to be; now Keltaris had proven itself to be a lot of trouble, and was wrecking her birthday, and she was rethinking her position. She adjusted her grip on Chrishton's hand and tried to focus her mind on when they could go back to bed again, and her certainty that since he hadn't found some other woman by now, she'd at least have him to keep her warm.

Her concentration was broken by his bizarre declaration.

"Hhoods?" She emphasized the very "h" that he, by habit, dropped. She stopped short and threw a disbelieving look out to the street to preface her point. "Is that the bes--is that the plan? I 'nno, I though' maybe wardrobe was a secondary concern?"

Her huff of frustration was followed by the hint of a discouraged squeak in her voice. Her annoyance with Chris was put on a temporary hold as she was reminded of her cat. "Ohh," she murmured as she scanned the length of lamplit road. He was a shadowy thing, that cat, and easy to loose sight of even in daylight. She stood on the toes of her boots and pursed her lips. "Puss-puss . . ." she called very quietly, hopefully.

No cat came running at her call, but for just a moment she seemed to think she had elicited a response: there was a noticeable shift in the mood of the sparse evening crowd on the road, a directional movement of feet, and some heads turning in their direction--But no, it wasn't in their direction. People were turning to see Salliniari's coach, and to see that its path was clear, and where it might be going. Dorcas and Chris were just bystanders to the path.

Dorcas sunk back into the mouth of the alley as the coach drew nearer, for reasons she wasn't sure of. Then, over the jingling of decorative curtains and the rattling of wheels on cobblestones--they were well-set and well-oiled wheels, so the rattling was the fault of the cobblestones--Dorcas heard first a "ribbit" that could as well have been the chirp of a cricket, and then a miaow. That sound, to her, was unmistakable. Where it was coming from? Behind the coach, inside it? She couldn't know.

"Oh!" She had to draw her sleeve up to her mouth to muffle her outburst. She tugged on Chris's sleeve and looked back helplessly at him, at the entirely too conspicuous gnomish weapon he was carrying. If hoods it had to be, then hoods it would be.

" . . . Don' you think we could jus' use some other sort of cloth, an' not have to knock out someone an' steal 'his clothes? Some curtains, somethin'?" As she looked back at him, her jaw fidgeting left and right, she seemed to understand in that moment that perhaps he had someone he cared to save too.

Something small and dark green flashed in the corner of the horse's limited line of sight. Limited by blinders the humans put on his eyes, Chumpy only noticed the thing in the last minute, just as it was leaping into his path... but Chumpy was a fickle horse. He didn't like stepping on things, or in things, or hitting things, and that green thing heading for his chest was definitely a thing of some kind.

With a deftness that would never impress the mares back at the stables, Chumpy redirected his speed and course to try and avoid the flying green thing. It was a dismal failure that resulted in much jarring of the carriage behind him. The green thing hit him right in the chest before flopping off harmlessly.

Chumpy did not complain, rear, or whinny. He was too old and regal for that. Besides, his driver would start whipping him if he overreacted. Instead he struggled to regain his pace, only to narrowly avoid stepping on another thing that wanted to be stepped on. This thing was fuzzy, and looked like a cat. Cats were okay by Chumpy. Maybe it would eat the green thing.

Seconds later Chumpy heard a meowing sound. Yup. Cat.

* * *

"Secondary concern? No no girly, dress is important. We canna be professionals without th' right clothes. Lookit th' military. Ya dun see 'em traipsin' about in overalls, do ya?"

Despite the gravity of their situation, Chrishton was more than willing to go on about the importance of proper attire. Appearances were important to him. Maintaining a cavalier attitude in the face of any obstacle was a matter of course for him. In the end it was her fault for giving him the opportunity to show that he was not concerned about events.

"E'ery real criminal wears a hood." He said, proving that dropping the letter h was a matter of choice and habit, not necessity. "An' it ain't like there's no better way t'ide what I look like when e'ery fuckin' turd suckin' guard in this bloody city's..."

He trailed off in full knowledge that the safety of her feline friend far outweighed his justification for finding hoods. While she called out and searched for the cat, Chrishton kept his eyes on the people around them. This was exactly the sort of situation that would get them caught.

Fortunately for them there was a distraction rolling down the street on four wheels. People were more interested in Salliniari's coach than anything else that might be going on. The gun Chrishton was holding was anything but inconspicuous, and he tried to hold it out of the way so as not to draw attention to it. If not for the coach, though, going unnoticed would be impossible.

He heard the cat's meow too. At least the thing was alive and still hanging around somewhere.

"Aw yeah that's a great idea. I'll walk around with fuckin curtains on m'ead an' nobody'll notice a thing." He stared back at her and pushed her in the direction of the coach and cat. "Go get yer bloody cat."

As the coach rolled past them, Chrishton naturally looked into the windows to see who was so important that they enthralled the rest of the street. Poor lighting and vibrations of the coach on hard cobbles cast reflections off the glass that made it difficult to see much. The vague image of an attractive young woman with long dark hair and exotic features was just barely enough to clue him in.

There was no way the occupants of the coach could hear the quiet 'ello there' he muttered to himself as it rolled on by. He hurried his brain to devise a way to keep up without losing Dorcas. Nothing came to mind.

"'Urry up, Dor! We're goin'!"

* * *

There was a noticeable jarring inside the coach, which caused Salliniari to grab the edge of his bench and glare at the little window behind the driver in irritation. He didn't know what the man had run over, but he'd better not hit anything else on this trip. The big boss was not in the mood to deal with a bumpy ride.

The driver didn't notice the daggers being glared at the back of his head. He was busy reeling in the horse after something on the road spooked it... or got into its hooves... or something. He couldn't tell. Something had obviously bothered the animal, but whatever it was was not big enough to stop them.

The ride carried on unabated and Salliniari let the incident slide. He looked back at Jasmina. She was beautiful. That alone seemed to calm him.

"The rosewalk is where the nobility like to gather in this city. It's away from the sort of riff-raff you find downtown. The gardeners have been working on it like a treasure for centuries. It's a family operation. Part of our heritage. It's been here since humans built this town with human hands."

Salliniari's racist streak showed through again. Keltaris belonged to humans. Of course he didn't let magical freaks run his operations.

In the end, his mind swung back to thoughts of the tavern and his problems, seemingly immune to the irony that he blamed his biggest problems on other humans - the Tarsis organization.

"Those fucking Tarsis are going to tear this city up again just to get to me. Guido had better handle this..."

"Ah. It sounds lovely. Keltaris has such a wealth of culture, I scarcely know where to look first."

Inwardly, Jasmina wasn't sure what to make Salliniari. He was so kind and pleasant, sometimes. Other times, she wondered if he remembered who he was talking to. "Riffraff"? Surely Jasmina should meet that description in spades. Yes, she was attractive, with soft hair and delicate skin, and she had learned to speak well if with odd foreign idiom, but she was born to peasant stock. Her clan of Travelers had been wiped out as accused poachers and trespassers. She was far from nobility.

Perhaps she should have been... grateful... that his class prejudice seemed not to extend to her? Instead, it simply made her feel vaguely unsettled. It made her feel like a not-yet-noticed piece of mismatched furniture. Jasmina had never claimed to be anything other than a commoner, but she was mildly concerned about the repercussions if that suddenly started to matter.

Or perhaps Salliniari's description of "riffraff" was only meant to extend to non-humans, and the contrast to "nobility" was unintentional. Though Jasmina wouldn't fall into the disliked category in that case, it didn't really improve her feelings much. There were a few who considered Travelers subhuman, after all. Jasmina had spent most of her time around fellow humans, and thus had little personal opinion about any other species, but after the abrupt and senseless death of her clan, any whiff of prejudice made her nervous.

There seemed to be no benefit to continuing down the path of talking about the Tarsis issue. It couldn't be resolved here in the carriage, and further discussion would only serve to raise Salliniari's blood pressure.

"Your craftsmen in Keltaris are amazing!" Jasmina enthused, defaulting to what seemed to be a non-controversial subject. "I have never seen such architecture. The schooling here must be impressive, if your people can learn so much of the arts."

She hoped this safe topic would carry them through to the rosewalk.

Dorcas was perhaps maturing a bit, because when Chrishton mocked her idea for curtains, she didn't retort. Of course he knew she didn't mean for them to dangle frilly window treatments like cake decorations around their heads, and of course he must know it would be a good idea to find a suitable length of heavy drapery cloth for their purposes rather than do violence unto any more citizens. At least, Dorcas felt fairly certain he knew that, and if he didn't already, there was no point in trying to explain.

Her usual desire to defy him was dampened. In her noble sneer--which she directed away from him, and with it her potential back talk--she also displayed her lack of intent to be his underling, his ward or child. She was coming to terms with the fantastical thought she was forming: that maybe he felt something like what she felt for her cat . . . towards that wretch they'd left with the skinny weirdo.

She saw Chris make as if to move on, ridiculous gun and all. Dorcas wrapped a hank of dirty hair around her fist as she hesitated. She shook her head, set her jaw, and made a move of her own. She wasn't about to let Chrishton's display of heroism towards that stupid furry boy show up her maternal devotion.

The girl took a lunging step forward and took her moment as the coachman snapped his whip at a willful horse. "PUSS!" She directed her low shout--which sounded practically like a cat's hiss--near the ground, towards the belly of the passing coach. The bulbous cobblestones reflected light and threw strange shadows, and it seemed just about anything could be hiding, lurking low on the streets.

In a moment, the old horse shied once again, and the cat, like a mossy projectile, came barreling around the front of the coach and towards his master. Where he had been tucked away this time was a mystery, but he'd come back to her. Dorcas didn't even need to stoop further to scoop the beast up, for he jumped of his own accord and scrambled up to her shoulders where he perched.

He made an awkwardly large accessory, but his poise was steady. Dorcas had to slouch her head and shoulders forward a bit to let him stand with his front paws on one shoulder and his back on the other, but the posture was natural enough for her. His belly brushed right up against her hair; the girl already had a good chance of carrying fleas herself.

She stepped up to Chrishton and gave him an unyielding stare that was rather ugly, but determined. "Alright alriddy," she said. "Lead the way."

Architecture was among the sort of bragging-right topic that Salliniari liked to indulge in regarding his city.

"They keep the old ways alive. The arches and domes are done by the traditions we had before the Changers' War. Keltaris was a center for art and learning before everything was thrown about across Eyropa and the rest of that filth started spilling in from everywhere else. They use numbers from those days and traditional techniques to design everything, not magic like everywhere else. The rest of Eyropa marvels at it. Pure human culture."

Salliniari didn't know that the hearsay he was regurgitating was mostly inaccurate. Many of the pillars and structural design used the same mathematical proportions of the Greek architects he was referring to, but none of the buildings in Keltaris were actually from before the War, and centuries of cultural confusion had led to a melting pot of different styles and cheaply borrowed themes. The design of the domes came from further east, while murals and sculptures were all done in a modern style, influenced by elven art, that any trained eye could identify as a misrepresentation of classical themes. Sallinari was rich and fairly old, but the man had no idea what he was talking about. In truth, no respectable university taught architecture without including all influences.

Their carriage passed another large building that was situated on top of a white marble stairway at least two dozen steps above street level and as wide as most city blocks. There were all sorts of people hanging about the steps, moving about or relaxing and talking. Most of them were young, and they all looked human. Salliniari identified it as the university and the center of the city. Across the road was the courthouse, and a little further down they passed a temple dedicated to Theogios that dwarfed it all. All the wealth and prosperity of Keltaris pooled in this part of town.

Not much further and the monolithic buildings of white stone ended. In their place were trees and flowers, winding paths, benches, a pond...

There they stopped, and Salliniari got out to hold the door open for Jasmina. The air was fresh and clean, the sun just cresting its peak in the sky.

* * *

Running with the gnomish gun in hand was difficult even for Chrishton. It was heavy, difficult to hold without some protrusion digging into his arm or side, and sounded like things were rattling around inside it. The only benefits were that he knew how to use it and that he knew, from experience, that it was sure to do something nasty to whoever it was pointed at.

Following on foot was not working out. Though the coach was traveling at a leisurely pace right though the center of the city, Chrishton could not hope to keep up forever. So it was after only a few minutes of jogging that he let his pace slow. He was sweating and panting already, eyes on the carriage as it gained distance down the road.

"Ah... feck it... find it later." He gasped and swallowed air.

Just then he noticed a man on a horse who looked like he was with the constabulary heading their way down the road. He casually pulled into the corner of a doorway and waited for Dorcas to do the same with him.

"Need them disguises, Dor."