B3 Interlude 7: Developments

Desperation had a stench, and it reeked of pisswater, stale sweat, and charleaf smoke.

Ro leaned back on the tavern wall, half expecting the poorly maintained wood to splinter under her weight. Arms crossed over her chest, she watched jittery lowlives swing their eyes across the pub — looking for their next mark, a good lay, or both.

No one saw her — she could have slapped them in the face and they’d still not pierce her concealment. Not here, and not people this weak. Gods, she hated the slagheap. A slum by a worse name, it was an affront to her senses. Literally, with her stats being in this section of Deadacre felt like she’d shoved her head in some alchemist’s reject vat.

It hadn’t always been so bad, but the influx of refugees had pushed the place over a tipping point. There was always scum in every city, but the organised elements had taken to the new circumstances with disgusting ease.

Still, the kids had been taken — stolen — she was sure of it. It had been too many weeks, and when she’d taken the time to investigate the bonefields, she’d quickly stumbled onto the remnants of a battle.

So she did what she must. Quiet and focused, she tuned into the buzz around her, hoping she would finally find something useful. Weeks of snatching known criminal elements from dark alleys had gotten her almost nowhere — only serving to fill the governor’s crowded dungeons even further. It had taken a bit of badgering, but she’d gotten Rieker to twist Hanrick’s arm. Those she grabbed, stayed — rumours of a ghost snatching men from the street was better than a dozen scumbags screaming that the guild was hunting for someone the second they got free.

Even if her initial probes hadn’t found much, they had led to her hearing about this place. An impromptu clubhouse for the unscrupulous and unusually driven of the slagheap’s denizens. Now all she would have to do was wait — someone would let something slip, they always did.

Ro just hoped it wouldn’t take too long. She’d seen pigpens that smelled better than this.

“Have you heard?”

She turned to the whispers, staring intently at three men clustered around a candle lit table in the tavern’s far corner.

“‘Bout the big party that’s happenin’ on South Row? Ye bet yer sweet ass I have.” A man in a ratty oil skin coat grinned, revealing missing teeth and half a dozen almost there.

His companion nodded. “Shulta was saying he heard a merchant bragging to some fop that he got an invite — him and his whole family. Old boot’s gettin’ a crew together to hit the shop while its empty. Some place called the Crystal Bottle — fancy fop wines and shit.”

Frowning, Ro turned her attention away from the burgeoning conspiracy. A break-in was of little interest to her — she wouldn’t even tip off the guards. Too much risk of giving her self away — enough heat had already been building, and she wasn’t going to get the rats of the city all nervous for every minor infraction. If someone wasn’t bleeding, she didn’t care.

Another voice filtered through the crowd, hushed whispers from a man in aged leathers hunkered by the bar piqued her interest.

“Hey! I’m looking for someone.”

Ro snapped her full attention to the man, something he didn’t receive from his nigh-catatonic neighbour.

“Whozzat?”

“Rosey — got a little extra coin for her.”

The drunk chuckled, taking another swig of pisswater from his tankard. Ro could smell it from across the room, all mouldy rye and sour bite.

“Hah! Gonbe waitin’ some time, she’s already with a john.”

Ro scowled, resisting the urge to spit on the floor as she ignored the rest of the incessant prattle. Her last captive had been insistent that this was where half of the slagheap rats came to wheel and deal, but so far all she’d seen was pathetic failures and small time scum — nothing useful.

Coming here had been a mistake.

She straightened, ready to slip out to the only-marginally fresher streets outside. A man walked in, stopping her fast. Back straight, with focused eyes, he prowled like he owned the place — wrapped in a brown wool cloak that lacked even a single hole.

Like it did whenever somebody came in, the bar grew quiet; dozens of leers landed on the newcomer. Every other time she’d seen them stare until the patron found a seat. This time brows widened in recognition, and the boozehounds slipped back into their drinks with their tails between their legs. Ro smiled, leaning back against the wall.

This was different. Maybe her lead had been good.

Stopping at the bar, the newcomer waved, and the tavernkeep gave him a wide grin.

“Good ta see ya, mate — here for the usual?”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Nah.” The newcomer’s voice was surprisingly smooth — a cool baritone out of place in the rat’s nest. “No fun fer me t’night; Raul’s looking fer some info — need to go visit Whisper.”

The tavernkeep nodded, filling a tankard with pisswater before he slid the drink to a patron waving for his attention.

“No worries — he’s at Coal House tonight. Ya been to that one before?”