Rapiers with rapier wits verseXbathymcbath

[Verse]

City of Berna.

A hub by the ocean, its docks received international goods and intentions all hours of the day. Most of the wares went through the Crowley net of commerce, however open its knots for some favorite item categories. Even pristine houses of pristine viscounts have their light-shy ventures. It was a perfect representation of the international melting pot Berna. To most, it was just legitimate droves of crates, lifted on and off trains of ships, keeping the port city with work, export and import. But there was no reason the underbelly of the capitol city should not involve themselves too, or at least that's what they insisted. Some of the crates, especially larger ones, whimpered in other voices than its wood, and others would split into boxes and wax-paper packages that distributed concocted libations in hidden supply-lines throughout the cobblestone megapolis.

With a castle on one side, Berna was sanctioned by King Lester De Bellaforte, and the taste of the royal family remained baroque and French, despite this Anglo-Saxon ground, throughout the older buildings. Some of them castles in their own right, though such spatial claims usually spread out toward the edges of Berna proper, rather than cluttering up the architecture within. Because of the Duelist Economy, Berna herself had inlays of metal in its smoothly chiseled statues, and always a touch of violence in otherwise fine and delicate décor. The mines under Bellaforte and adjacent nobles did well in reinforcing stone with the finished, treated product of their ore. Whatever mean tongues might say about the new sword and knife standard, Berna distinguished herself against other world-cities with its iron, brass and copper touches.

An invasion that mixed up with a civil war had forever changed the politics of the country itself, but the retaking of the crown by a now legendary force hadn't just altered its standing structures, it had changed the zeitgeist here and that in turn had bled out into the rest of the world. Berna was fashion, now. Berna lead the way. Because a few men had carved out the way for a king of many generations ago with their rapiers and sabers, now all men may have the same chance. To advance, you needn't have money, or land, or marry well, no, in the new world, you could also buy your fortune with your dowry of violence, provided you were so inclined and blessed.

One man rich in such blood treasure, but increasingly less so in others, found himself at the beginning of another night, at the Opera House Libera, where culture was distributed to anyone who could pay the lowest admission of a handful of Bellaforte glints. The Berrenger son still kept a booth at a height and placing that was stellar to see the scene. Or at leas it used to be, before the remodeling to add more room for the orchestra. The booth was still a respectable row, but reflected the decline of his house, and its failure to move with the times. Tattered valor is still valor, though, and it beat sitting on the floor with the riffraff.

The latest show was a modern travesty. Not as much in story as in form. A penned-out tragedy by a rising writer, but with speech in French when the arias and highs were the original Italian. The crowd loved it, and it sold well, but it was a bastardization and reeked of unoriginality. Critics who did not pander were sure it would not stand the test of time as more than a representation of the shallow state of opera, in this era.

The young lord in the Berrenger booth didn't mind. He liked the downfall of the main character, and his eventual bloody revenge. The love story taking second fiddle to the fighting spoke to him, as he peeled a complimentary orange and ate it to ready his palled for the buffet of contraband and fisticuffs he'd follow this small jaunt of more elegant pastime with. Maybe it made him feel better about lacing his blood and mind with entrancing elixirs, if he prefaced them with a bit of sung storytelling. Or maybe he just needed a place to sit before things got going in the Lantern Districts where he found nourishment for his worst parts. He would honor the fighting spirit of his house by dishonoring the skills of others. Last son or not, he'd still gone through the famous Berrenger training, and with his birthright talent for combat, he'd yet to meet someone who could take him on his best day. His long limbs were packed with speed and power, and the black and purple tailoring underlined it with subtle gold stitching. But it was silver belts and sheaths and ornamented handguards that explained to the world who he really was. Sharlan of house Berrenger. The brutal turns of the vines on his weapons spoke of his legacy, that his family had once been instrumental in helping the crown itself to keep this land.

His facial features were gaunt in the limited lighting in the booth, but the skin was healthy on merit of his youth and the excellent condition he must keep himself in, though he did counteract it plenty with his nightly lifestyle, too. The result was a gothic dandy, with a lot of power holding up his decay. At least the girls in the lantern districts liked the darkness about him. For now, his black hair was tied back with a brown leather band. He swallowed the last wedge and leaned back, to let Antoine's fate play out on the sceen, in this mixed-language ordeal, so he could find a good tavern after.

 

[bathymcbath]

The Berna Season was in full swing, which meant Zora Crowley was making her obligatory appearance at the Libera. The evening’s entertainment was another macabre tragedy glorifying the violence and destruction that so enraptured society, and her eyes had glazed over well before intermission. Lady Brandon sat beside her in the Crowley box. Their seats were far from the center of the mezzanine, but there were no bad seats in the mezzanine. The benches were thickly cushioned and wrapped in dark, soft velvet of the privacy drapes. Laid out in the corner was a tray of chilled sherry, sufficient glasses for a full box plus visitors, and fat ripe strawberries. Lady Brandon loved the theater and was easily absorbed in the narrative where Zora was not.

Several minutes before the break, Zora squeezed Lady Brandon’s hand and made a quiet exit from the box. This was her way when the season was upon her. She would slip away for a brandy before the lobby filled to overflowing with eligible young men and women and their matchmaking mothers and fathers. As the only daughter of Isaac Crowley, Zora was widely considered to be a golden goose. Although her father was not so boorish as to make the size of her dowry public knowledge, it didn’t matter. Once she was noticed, the failing noble houses would come sniffing like hungry dogs.

And she likely would be noticed tonight. She wore deep sea blue rather than the pastels that were so in fashion for the season, and a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg hung from a gold chain around her neck and she carried a golden fan to match it. Her brown hair was curled and intricately pinned to her head so it was lifted off her slender neck. She was a slip of a thing, almost boyish in figure, but she liked to think that the hair and the jewels and the dresses took up space of their own and cast her presence wider.

Zora tossed back her brandy and motioned for another just as the ushers began ringing their handbells. When the footman approached, she smiled prettily at him and batted her dark eyes, hooked her fingers around the neck of the brandy snifter and left him with a pleased word of thanks. He blinked at her owlishly, but thought better of shouting her down. As Zora marched from the lobby her smile dropped and she turned in the opposite direction from her box, where Lady Brandon was most assuredly stepping into the hallway to find her.

She noticed the oil lamp next to the Berrenger box was lit this night, which meant Sharlan Berrenger was at the theater that night, and Zora meant to have a word with him. A private word. She also knew that he was a man of many vices, hence the brandy, not to mention the uncomfortable corset underneath her gown, which cinched her waist and lifted her bust and made the heat of the auditorium nearly unbearable. She fanned herself as she approached the Berrenger booth. She saw the thick rope bell-pull and she could have tugged it to signal her arrival, but instead she let herself inside and said quietly but not meekly, “Forgive my intrusion, sir, but might I have a word with you?”

 

[Verse]

He did feel for Antoine this time around. Perhaps it was the novice of the songstress that carried over to the character's initial naivete, or maybe it was the way she took in air to emphasize her-- lungs, that brought him into the narrative. He was still not so distracted that he forgot to ash his black cigarette in the peel he'd placed on the bannister, and enjoy the mixed citrus and arson perfume, or casually note the noises outside the booth. He was disliked enough for his wit, and what enemies his verbal lashings didn't earn him, his sleight with blades and muskets did. He had mean things to say pertaining originality in a murder plot with an opera box as its final scene, but he had always thought it was a rather romantic way to go, certainly better bred than he deserved. Still, old habits always focused on audible clues for assassins.

That's why he was a bit surprised that he had not clocked the visitor until the friction of her dress drew against the drapes that kept this space private. He did know, that since there was no intent in her motions, this would likely not be a matter of sharpened metal. Still. He'd wished his training would have told him sooner. Sure now, next time it would. He turned to look at her over his shoulder, and his composure stayed, but the cigarette in his mouth dipped. Zora Crowley. Now that was a picture. Her scents were subtle under the orange and smoke, but it made his mouth water. As did the insistence of her dress and the vial she held. This might be pleasant. He'd known some finer ladies to be curious about his murderous reputation. They made for good sport, as did the working class wives. Somehow, he doubted this was that, now. But a boy can hope.

"Crowley. Madam." he said and stood. He touched a finger to his temple since he didn't like hats. He was tall enough without one. When he looked her over, he allowed himself a long enough moment that it may be inappropriate. He paid for it with smirk that pinched the cigarette before he took it out. "You can have any of my words if you replace them with that brandy." he offered and tugged at the chair beside his that it would face him, once he sat, as well as the scene outside. She looked expensive, and he thought her shapes were exaggerated in their bindings, enough that he knew she'd tried harder tonight than other nights. He was, of course, getting ahead of himself in his head by wondering if he'd get to see the indentations of her corset on her bare skin while she laid under him. How does a viscountess scream with a belly full of cock?

There were glasses in the Berrenger booth, and he got two quickly, rounding his chair to do so, and producing himself infront of her, looking down. A small thing, for all her wealth and power. He hung the glasses in three fingers, and used his other hand on the small of her back to lead her to her chair. It was overly familiar, but what's the use of a box, if not that? "You're here to ask me for love advise, aren't you?" he jested. If she'd follow in his steering he'd sit down too, if she'd refuse he'd remain standing. The truth of his interest to anyone hung in silver belts by his side, catching whatever light from the candles and lamps that they could. He got closer to her, lower. "I'll tell you what I tell all pretties. Go for a duelist this season. I have on good authority they're agile and true in their game."

 

[bathymcbath]

From the moment Zora stepped into the Berrenger booth, time seemed to race ahead of her, leaving her struggling to catch up. When Sharlan stood and turned to her, the heat of the crowded theater and the smallness of the booth distracted her senses and killed the words on her lips. He was rather taller than she remembered, and his face was changed by more than age. There was something in him, something harder. Colder? Bored? She hadn’t had such an up close look at Sharlan Berrenger in years.

And she certainly hadn’t been looked at by anyone the way Sharlan looked at her now. She felt heat rush from the base of her throat to the tips of her ears and was thankful for the low light. There was something fascinating in the way his mouth formed her name around a lit cigarette and she was still wrenching her attention back to the matter at hand when he deftly liberated the brandy from her much as she had done to the footman. He moved with such ease that she hadn’t even tensed when the bottle lifted from her fingers.

She cleared her throat as she was guided to sit. She allowed herself to be directed, albeit stiffly, to the chair and she dropped delicately into it. “Well,” she began, but Sharlan was already speaking again. Love advice. Duelists. She absolutely was not secretly pleased that he called her pretty. That had been the plan, after all.

Oh yes, the plan. As if on cue, his belts glinted and passed back into shadow as he sat, and Zora mentally steeled herself against any further rakishness on Sharlan’s part. She had been courted before, she was not going to fall to pieces because a down and out duelist made playful eyes at her. She dug deep for the bracing irritation that usually bubbled so near her surface.

“In fact, I am after a duelist, Mr. Berrenger,” she said, allowed that statement to hang in the air for the briefest pause, and continued, forcing herself to keep flinty eye contact with him. “Specifically, I want you. To hire you, I mean. For work - real work - as a duelist.”

It was a little more direct than she had intended to be. She’d meant to exchange niceties. She’d meant to ask after his health, although she could see perfectly that he was well. She’d meant to endear herself to him before making her request because she knew, despite whatever misfortune had befallen his house, he was not for want of opportunities. He was still highly sought after, if not as enthusiastically as in days past, and she needed him to want to help her as much as he wanted her coin. But then she'd actually stood before him, and she could tell inside the span of a few seconds and fewer words that she wasn't prepared for the consequences of flirting with this man in this place. Not nearly prepared.

She cast a meaningful look around the booth, taking in the orange peel full of ashes and the auditorium emptying for intermission below, and then back to Sharlan. “Discreetly,” she finished grimly.

 

[Verse]

He could tell what she was by how she reacted to his outward energy, as he pelted her with it.

Dancing. That's how others liked to describe any meaningful exchange between people, if the medium was dear to them. But it wasn't like that to the swordsman; the likeness was too cheap for the sellsword. No. To him it'd be like battle, no? With her, he thought he'd make it like wrestling. She was a reigning winner to herself, how could she not be, with all those things on her side; her beauty, her riches, her breeding? But that meant things usually went her way.

He only presented a little pause, and perhaps some pushy suggestion that he liked what he saw, and that Zora Crawley was not setting the pace in here. He was infatuated with the blood under her skin, when it moved to give her color, to assure him that his wit and little braveries landed exactly where he wanted them on her. And as deep. He alternated between handling her while he distracted her, and then adding more diversions. He enjoyed flustering her. He wondered how aghast she'd be at the end of this, if he got what he wanted.

So, the woman who sat down by him, while he postured in his own chair, was not a well put-together viscount's daughter. He had all the shadows of a demon on his face in this booth, but they were becoming because he had never said he wasn't a monster. Something in her breathing, however controlled, gossiped his features were effective on her. When she spoke her words came out a bit beyond her control, and after, she looked just a smidge violated by how she'd spilled them. She had meant to deliver with more finery.

He held out a glass for her, not at all full, but double the polite amount, given the strength of the drink. It was almost as though he was rewarding her with a treat for having submitted to his prodding. He had a sip of his own glass. "Discreetly." he echoed like he was trying hard to show respect, even if her request was silly. The shrinking of his lips and the short nod at least said he liked the brandy. He was still in a state where he could tell its quality. He liked watching her profile before she turned back.

There was only one thing about him that was worth anything to someone like Zora. While his cigarette died, mumified in its own leavings in the crown of peels, he reclined, again to look her over. Though it was rakish still, he was weighing her in other ways now. He, on the other hand, hadn't decided what he wanted from Zora, yet. He had to know what he could get, first. Obviously this was not an official ordeal, which meant simply knowing could give him leverage, later. But he had already decided he'd do it. She didn't need to know that, though.

His services always came with the chance of him dying. Sometimes people forgot that, because he was saving their lives. "Discreetly will cost you, Crowley." he said and kept the glass in his lap as he continued to lather her torso with his attentive eyes. Maybe she'd pay him a king's ransom for this. He'd love to dictate his price with something as untouched as Zora. He shrugged and dispelled some of the tension he'd braided into the air. "For starters, I'll need more details, won't I?"

 

[bathymcbath]

Zora glanced at the offered glass and back into Sharlan’s eyes as she accepted it. She sipped at it before setting it gently on the arm of her seat. She left her gloved fingers circled loosely around the glass, idly twisting it in quarter rotations back and forth, back and forth. She heard the derision in his voice when he echoed her and it lit a spark of genuine anger in her. Her pulse kicked up. She dropped her dark eyes to the glass between her fingers, turning and turning, and she patiently waited out her own pique.

She hated being mocked, but more than that she hated losing her temper. She looked a long time at her glass, as if it were as fascinating as the drama that would soon resume on the stage below. She could think more clearly when she wasn’t looking at Sharlan looking at her. His eyes on her were like a physical touch, and they appreciated her so openly that Zora felt as if she were laid bare in front of him and not sat innocently in his theater booth. She focused on the color of the brandy in her glass and the fading aroma of tobacco and the faint din coming from the lobby.

She took her time choosing her words, and when she looked back at Sharlan there was no sign of her prior upset. She even smiled at him, although the expression held more politeness than warmth.

“I’m happy to share specifics once we’ve set terms,” she said breezily. “The work is low risk, I should think. Escort me to some less than savory places, keep yourself and others out of my way while I look into matters in said unsavory places. You’ll be disguised as my guard.”

Zora reckoned it was sufficient information for Sharlan to make his choice. If they agreed to terms, she would explain to him about her suspicions and why there was such a great need for secrecy. If they didn’t agree to terms, then Sharlan Berrenger left the Libera that evening aware of nothing more than Zora Crowley was up to something. Even that limited information felt dangerous in his hands.

“Assuming your fee is reasonable, I can pay plus whatever surcharge you think is appropriate for your discretion.” This was a bluff of sorts. Zora’s funds were not as unlimited as her casual acceptance seemed to indicate, but she knew she wouldn’t need Sharlan for long and the short-term expense would be manageable.

 

[Verse]

There was a little breath, like a bubble behind his Adam's apple, when he saw how perturbed she became from his little teasing. Whatever she wanted from him, she wanted it dearly, to put up with something like this. The Crowley girl was exactly as her caste had produced her; beautiful, clean, and used to getting her way. Like a doll in spirited porcelain expression, she was propped up there, in front of him, drinking spirits. He had to compact his lips, not to laugh, when she had gathered herself to look at him again. While she gave the new expression perfectly, it was the contrast to her former emotions that almost had him in a fit.

The offer was more interesting than he'd thought. More than that, it didn't seem as shallow as most of these things went. She meant to do things for herself, by herself. How industrious. He would have commended her if he didn't see a myriad of weaknesses in the little information she'd given, already. It was a bit like warning him with her teeth but still baring her throat. But still, this was the rich and powerful asking their legmen to die for them. The fact that she would ask him of all available swords already suggested things were dire. His fee would not be reasonable.

"Simple enough. Get in the way of sharp objects so you can play sleuth." he summarized and drank some more. Even when halving the brandy in his glass, he did not look away from her. She was pretty in the glow borrowed from outside the curtains to his booth. Faraway stagelight. As perfectly fitting as the Crowley daughter looked at the opera, she would stand out in any place that'd fit her description of unsavory. He could not back down from this.

"Two bellas." he said, and there was a finality to the last hiss of the last word, his tongue still tasting of oak. He could always use more glint to spend in the Berna night. He deliberately remained mercurial whether the steep fee included his silence or not. His hand, the one not weighted by her liquid gift, moved around inside the chest of his coat to bring out a lithe etui. Nimble as murderers are, his fingers flipped the lid open and flicked a cigarette half way out. He extended his arm until the end of the roll would reach her lips if she but nodded forward. If she declined, he'd say something to the effect of 'three bellas' to show his offense, and if she tried to take the cigarette with her fingers instead, he'd utter a short but effectual 'uh-uh' to forbid her from it. If she complied, the etui would be replaced by a burning match, twisted alive by his thumb, its flame ready to serve.

"Now that we are dear friends, who drink and smoke together, you will give me the details, yes?"

 

[bathymcbath]

Two bellas. That was not reasonable, not for what would likely amount to a few hours’ work over the course of two or three nights. But it would be worth it to keep this conversation between the two of them, and Zora could afford it. Barely, but she could do it.

Zora considered the fine little cigarette box briefly, then accepted. She reached with her gloved hand and Sharlan stopped her with a wordless little sound. Confusion flashed only briefly in her expression before it was replaced by a kind of disbelieving understanding.

This man. This carousing, whoring, extortionist was set on goading her. To what end, Zora didn’t know. She understood his heated looks and his prodding to be, well, interest. She was not so naive as to believe that interest was genuine. She thought it strategic, to keep her off balance, primarily because it was successful. She did feel off balance, warm, slightly breathless.

They both knew that ultimately Zora would flinch. The consequences of not flinching - of throwing herself brazenly against his strange style of assessment and daring him back with her complicity - were far more severe for Zora than they could ever be for any man, particularly Sharlan, whose honor lived on in memory only.

He knew she would flinch. She knew she would flinch. The question was when. He was determined that they found her boundary together, and if she disappointed him with her choice she worried he’d deny her his services, regardless of whatever outrageous price he quoted her now.

Zora did not flinch. After a pause to consider she let her mouth fall open just far enough to bare the tops of her teeth and a flash of pink tongue. She leaned forward and allowed Sharlan to guide a cigarette just past her lips. There it wedged, perfectly still while Sharlan produced and struck a match. The air between them became acrid with the scent of sulfur and the match seemed to flare unusually bright to Zora’s eyes, but then it became tame and she inhaled carefully when Sharlan touched the flame to the end of her cigarette. Sharlan’s face was well illuminated briefly, and Zora begrudgingly observed that at the right angle his face was obscenely handsome when warmed by firelight.

Her eyes never left his, hers glittering darkly with challenge. She inhaled deeply, plucked the cigarette from her mouth daintily with her gloved fingers, and exhaled smoothly. This took an effort, as the blend wasn’t as mellow as what her father sometimes indulged her to smoke. She wanted to cough, but instead she thinned her lips and swiped her tongue against a stray bit of tobacco, then indelicately spat the little speck to the side.

“Friends,” she echoed, tasting the word and the smoke and a lingering hint of sulfur.

She’d considered this moment for days as she waited for her opportunity to approach the duelist. She’d thought of bringing parchment and quill and having his signature swearing him to secrecy. She’d thought of perhaps just asking for a sacred vow. No matter how she turned it in her mind, she was going to have to trust Sharlan to some degree, and a contract would do precious little for her worst fears were realized and he betrayed her.

Finally she relaxed back into her chair and nodded. This time, she did not sip delicately at her brandy, but took a mouthful and savored its bolstering burn. “Someone is stealing from my house. More probably, many someones are stealing from my house. I think it’s been going on for a very long time. But recently there have been mistakes. Sloppy ones. Bills of lading aren’t matching the ledger reports coming from the warehouses for certain goods.”

The implications should have been obvious to anyone. The Sea Barons controlled the docks and managed Viscount Crowley’s interests there, including his warehouses. What Zora proposed was that one or more of the barons had turned against her father, possibly all three, and they’d been working against his interests. Maybe for years. Until Zora uncovered the extent of it, she couldn’t know how exposed they were. Was it simple greed that drove this betrayal, or was it more?

“I need to see specific ships’ cargo with my own eyes, when they come in. I’d rather not be seen, but if I am I can pretend to be about my father’s business. I can pretend to be lost, even. If, as you say, it comes to sharp objects, then I would require you to step in. But not until then.”

 

[Verse]

He let his price hang in the air with the dying of his cigarette smoke and its orange notes, burnt and unwilling accomplice to the box's perfumes. He was more interested in this instant reward, holding out an new roll for her. He shifted with some contained, dark triumph, when she reflexively took back her fingers from taking it. While he did not word it out, he expressed plenty that he was very accepting of her instinctual compliance. Zora fancied herself a rebel, he was sure, but she was many generations bred, a woman who listened to strong men.

The heat of her breath and the one burning her cheeks and the one burning her body pored over his fingers. This poor little corseted thing was on fire. And here she was sitting and pretending that she wasn't. He wondered how she'd break this standstill, because she had to. His arm was strong. It made a living with long metal. He could hold this etui all night.

When she did her tongue was pretty. He decided he wanted it. His own lips let out a reverent sigh, like her obedience was a neat trick that pleased him, when she came for the cigarette, and it met her half way. He clucked his tongue and then she was alive with the matches's light. Like a chick out of its shell, new to the world, and then she suckled the stick until it was on fire in itself. The bridge between their eyes was taut, a line thrumming tight from pupils to pupils, and he turned his head slightly while she spit. There that tongue was again. Her nostrils flared just a little bit to show him she was struggling with the tar vapor. The small gap between his lips pulsed once, so she'd know he might know.

His eyebrows darted toward the side he flicked his head at, with a petitioning suck to his lips when she thought him over as a friend. I can be friendly, it said, innocent and outwardly lying, at once. But his playfulness dipped just a little, some grim between those brows, when he listened to her after her impressive swig of the brandy she'd brought. Admittedly, she had a good reason for what she was doing. He would have thought her motivations were flimsy.

"I see the plot within the rich echelon have stayed the same thickness." he announced and lit himself a roll as well. Now it was his turn to take a smaller taste of his brandy before he filled the same mouth with smoke, and swallowed it down together like it was all ingredients to one pleasure. His exhale was measured, but the tendrils came from both his mouth and his nose. A dragon in human skin, across from her.

He had actually heard something about this. "The docks are the first place for betrayal, when things come off the boats." he explained. "People hustle each other all the way from the unintentionally imported rats to the yappy lapdogs in the castle." It sounded like it would be more mockery. "So you're right to start there." but it wasn't. But the scheme of sea barons taking from House Crowley drowned among the other evils that gossiped across him during his brushes with the dirtier elements of Berna and the rest of the King's England. He remembered it was connected to something bigger. Something impossible. Something as bold for a thousand men as going into the belly of the crime against her family was to a single girl. Maybe Sharlan wanted to know himself.

"We can do it your way, Zora." he tested if she'd let him get away with just her first name. He leaned forward, casual, holding the glass and his cigarette in both hands, gesturing like they were drinking buddies for longer than tonight. "You're about right concerning the risks. Or," he added. "You can disguise yourself. I have dresses that'll fit you, cloaks that will hide you, and I can get you there with protection from other sabers and swords and from prying eyes." He was going to have all the fun he could with this. Though, if she was smart enough to assume the worst about him, he could also work with her plan. Looking at her now, so perturbed by him, but finding herself here anyway, and her elegant build when all he wanted to make her was vulgar, it was very fetching. Somehow there was always an air about her, like a quiet promise she'd show him abhorrent faces if he tricked her right. Proper as a prelude, only.

"What do you say?" he asked and stroked her downward with his eyes, as though she might nod Yes with her bust or hips.

She was being such a good fawn, walking into this satin and silk corner herself to sit down and call for him and all his teeth. Now he just had to get close enough to eat her up before she woke from her silly imaginings and tried to run.

 

[bathymcbath]

Zora took a steadying breath, striving to focus on the task at hand despite Sharlan’s blatant perusal of her body. A strange heat crept up her neck, an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation. She offered him a small, composed smile, willing herself to stay centered. She thought she should return to her box soon, to the safety of Lady Brandon's company. Absently she reached for her fan and flicked it open, sending a few exquisite gusts of air into her face, stirring the fine hairs at her temple. As abruptly as she'd begun fanning, she stopped as if suddenly aware of how she telegraphed her unease.

She paused, her dark eyes meeting his with a hint of challenge. His gaze lingered on her, making her pulse quicken in a way she didn’t fully comprehend. The brandy was starting to take hold, warming her from the inside and making her feel slightly unsteady. A little wrinkle of confusion appeared on her brow and she opened her mouth and started to ask why Sharlan, of all people, would have dresses, plural. It occured to her then, just before she gave voice to her naive thought, that the dresses likely had women inside them when they came into his possession and she was struck momentarily dumb. That he would presume to dress her in the leftover rags of his low rent conquests sent a flare of indignation through her so hot that it burned away her nerves and left her simmering.

"I'll wear my own clothes, thank you," she said in a low voice that bordered on an angry growl. She felt suddenly foolish for the exhilaration that had gripped her only moments before. She'd been flattered and damn near panting, and all it had taken was a couple of heated looks and crass innuendo from a -

That thought fractured and shattered, because she didn't know what label to apply to this technically noble but clearly ungentlemanly man. Whatever he was, he had made her feel cheap and that stung her worst of all. And because her temper now held the reins to her mouth she went on, "If we're to move forward, I'll need to know you take this agreement seriously. I'll pay you one bella when we meet next, and after a successful job you'll receive the rest. The King's Sorrow is the name of the ship, and she comes in two days hence. I have a spotter already, but we'll need to move quickly when she docks, so we'll need someplace quiet near the docks to wait. I trust you're capable of finding something, yes?"

 

[Verse]

He was just settling in to enjoying the rising red to mingle with her complexion when she batted her fan at it. What were all those efforts for, to stave off, though failing, her baser, responsive reactions? She reassured him not with an upward turn of her lips, a blink that might have escaped her restrain, or a wet breath over wet lips, but with a large physical gesture, as though she'd be looking for a fainting couch. He held on to his properties, but in celebration of her confession, he mouthed a judgmental Oh, and leaned away to an angle where the shadows would cut deeper into his cheeks.

Maybe he would have addressed it more, her sensibilities being chilled by the efforts of her wrist, but when she balked at his counter-offer, he laughed shortly, a few clucks from his throat. He was far enough ahead that it'd sound belittling as much as delighted at her theater of expressions. She was, after all, in asking and coming here, giving him the lion's share of the power, even if she'd insist on her dignity all throughout. He did not plan on letting her keep it, but for now, they could pretend. The way his eyes narrowed to focus, to pander and nod, when she rejected him, was almost childish.

How charming, with her anger complimenting the blush that had come from other places. Her own clothes. He gave them another once over, as lecherous as he'd allowed himself to be, so far. "Are you sure?" Both an insult to her ingenuity for the occasion, and her current attire, as though he had low opinions of it - he, who was just a hair's breadth from squalor but struggled with his vanity.

He was about to speak to his own seriousness, probably another joke at her expense, but he only got half a word out when she mentioned the name of the ship. He did recognize that name. Oh, so this was in the thick of the roilings that he'd heard fleetingly from ladies's mouths when their lips still tasted like his salts. He cleared his throat to smooth over his hitch, best he could. In sword art, you may misplace your step if you find your footing again and lunge. He would take it as an opportunity to show her his mettle. "The Sorrow comes in one day, m'lady." he said without pause. For now, he hoped she chalked it up to his shipping savvy rather than knowing about that vessel in particular. "There is a storage unit that doesn't hold much, but is sometimes used to showcase finer wares. It is carpeted in part and its seaside windows would lend themselves well for this." Once or twice he'd slept there, when brawling and drink had taken too much out of him.

He took another length of life from the cigarette and blew it slowly, like a milky liquid, into his cup, to make morning fog on the amber lake. It was a disgusting thing to do in polite meetings, but some of the tavern pretties couldn't get enough of it. He held it out to her like he wanted to touch glasses. "Better get my bella ready sooner rather than later, Zora." she'd allowed that name, after all, and it tasted better than the smoke and the brandy, coming out.

 

[bathymcbath]

Zora felt the room's atmosphere thicken as Sharlan’s words settled over her. She had miscalculated the King's Sorrow's arrival, and a sharp pang of embarrassment surged through her. The brandy coursing through her veins made her slightly unsteady as she stood, her hand gripping the edge of her chair for balance.

"One day," she repeated, more to herself than to Sharlan. She nodded, lifting her chin with renewed resolve. "Thank you for correcting me. I'll be ready." It didn't occur to her immediately to wonder why Sharlan had this information at the ready.

She glanced at the offered glass, contemplating the symbolic gesture. Instead of returning it in kind, she reached out and steadied herself with the back of the chair before nodding towards Sharlan. "You've been... most helpful, Mr. Berrenger."

Zora hesitated, the warmth of the brandy and the weight of the evening's events making her legs feel distinctly wobbly. She flicked her fan open again, more for the illusion of composure than to cool herself, and gave Sharlan a nod of gratitude mixed with lingering frustration.

"Where will I find you tomorrow?" she asked, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her limbs. She needed to know precisely where to meet him to finalize their arrangements and ensure everything went smoothly, considering the compressed timeline. "I'll need the exact location. And please, don't make me regret trusting you with this," she added, her tone softer but no less determined.

The brandy was making her brave, if a bit wobbly. "You have my word; the bella will be ready," she said, a slight edge to her voice that betrayed her frayed nerves. With a final, faintly unsteady nod, she began to turn away, the fan closing with a decisive snap in her hand.

 

[Verse]

It had been a small thing. An arrow at a fortress. He'd not meant to topple her with this. He had thrown other wit at her. There were a handful of large ships that employed the same scheme. They told of later docking so that they had time for their more elicit handlings. If they were found out, they'd only be congratulated if they stayed quiet about it. Most of their secrets could be covered in a false hull, on the inside, while they waited things out, but getting them out early was preferred. He drank with enough greedy sea farers to know that much, at least, and his latest buddies in whiskey bottle bottoms were to deploy on the Sorrow's next run. Sharlan had bet a few glints on it, but didn't have enough to make a real dent, even if he was assured it was a sure win. Gambling on business was too slow for his tastes, anyway.

He had stood too, upon her first stand and faltering. His cigarette fell, and it laid there, unattended by his boot. If she'd been a fencer she'd see the fold of his wrist and the spread of his fingers at his side, which quickly turned to rest on his hip as though he was a bit put off by her. He'd almost caught her because she almost fell. She had triggered fleeting concern that transmutated into his usual, opportunistic predatory nature. His arrow had dislodged a cornerstone in her wall. Perhaps the brandy had softened her up.

He nodded and swirled the glass to smartly dispel the vapor. He drank quick. "Thank you for considering my services." he answered dryly, vocals unaffected by the brandy. He wondered if he should offer her more with the weight of some social chain, to see what the alcohol could do to her, and for him. But then there'd be no bella, surely. And this belle have better sit in her fumes for a while.

He finally danced, one step and monotone, on the cigarette, and was without glass. As quick tug from behind his lapel and he produced a card that had seen a better life. A gaudy red that had chipped over yellow paper. All veneer, no real quality. The painted letters were gaudy and almost ominous because of the thick font. SCARA. "It used to be a watering hole but now it resupplies sailors. Sometimes they have finer things to sell than that. This will let you peruse in the backroom. I'll be there."

When she took it, he took her waist. He didn't part his legs to stand better, or steady his spine. She was nothing to him, like she wouldn't even be more than the weight of his cuff already on that arm. Like she could indeed fall and he wouldn't notice he was holding her up if he wasn't looking at her. He'd turned her back to him, and she'd know the great distance between his eyes and hers then. Maybe he was a monster, after all. He felt the last waved of her fan, he was so close. "You'll trust me because I'll be worse than any of the other dangers when you step into my nights, Zora Crawley. To them, you're mine." he warned her and let her corset go. He bowed, and it was good form, but this close, it was also rude. Now their eyes, and her ear and his mouth were the same height. "And they won't believe tough acts from blushing little girls fencing with their father's money. They'll know what's behind your bustier because it's loud like the opera, Zora."

He took a step back after filling her earshell with his voice, locked his hands behind his back, and nodded for the exit, if she should have trouble finding it, now.

 

[bathymcbath]

Zora thought distantly that she should be panicking as Sharlan’s arm caught her waist and redirected her. She worried that she’d allowed one too many indignities, tried to be too worldly with too little actual worldliness, and now Sharlan was going to feel entitled to take certain liberties. This fear swept over her as her eyes skipped up the length of him to his face and she took a moment to appreciate his physical advantage over as a truly meaningful detail, one that ought never be forgotten.

She held the card Sharlan gave her loosely in her hand, but she hadn’t bothered to look at it. Instead she stared at his face, frozen with mortification. He was right, of course. She was a blushing girl, although she hadn’t been one before she stepped into the booth with him. She didn’t react this way to rude men, she didn’t tolerate insults. Simply put, she didn’t have to tolerate insults and she never had. She’d known privilege and power from the cradle and had never hesitated to wield them when her inferiors acted out of turn. It was the way of all great houses. Yet in one very brief, albeit risky exchange, Sharlan had coaxed awake some reckless impulse to learn what he’d do next. That was not his shortcoming, it was hers.

She swallowed thickly and nodded, too well humbled to formulate a retort and understanding that protest of any form would only further prove his point. He’d let her know in no uncertain terms that she was behaving foolishly and her only recourse now was to leave before she made it any worse and he withdrew his services.

“Perhaps you should call me Miss Crowley,” she muttered as she left. “And keep your hands to yourself in the future,” she added as she passed through the privacy curtain and out into the hall to find Lady Brandon and spend the remainder of the performance at her side, the very picture of ladylike refinement. If Lady Brandon smelled brandy or tobacco smoke or oranges on Zora, she wisely did not say.

 

[Verse]

Men like correcting women. And she was afflicted by the full barrage of it, from the look in her face, when he pulled her in and changed her stride. A complete transgression upon her autonomy. He knew the small ways physical interactions mattered. She was learning too, with her body. And he was learning her, stitching her motions and billowing scents and changes of temperature into his memory. Her dignity was an opponent he meant to annihilate.

She understood; with her flesh and her girlhood she knew what he meant. A blow he'd dealt, in her own arena of talking. He was given the moniker of a brute because his force could be, and to punish those who'd baptized him as such he usually turned it on its head. To Miss. Crowley's credit, she had perhaps the most perfect show of mortification, real and deep, that any of her ilk had ever given him. She even looked slightly accepting of it, among the agonies she felt. That was her pedigree among her petticoat peers, not her breeding or that her father saw to this land and the sea licking it, but her pretty face and its pretty set, when he was harsh. It made him want to sink his teeth into her right now.

He let go then, because she'd entertained him greatly. Her last words became just that. He didn't mind the music of her voice when she left, especially when it was so jilted. In her absence, he paid her the courtesy of touching two fingers to his hairline and bowed deeply again. When he watched the rest of Antione and his fate, Sharlan suddenly thought the love story could have used more focus. He was out before the tragic round-off, to gallivant through the night again, the gossips thought, but he may be thinking of sparing Crowley another meeting. To the taverns and restaurants and entertainment establishments it was all the same.

-

Though the point of their first meeting of the new evening was to not be on the docks, the Scara was. Just like the card, the building had some direction toward the better things, but it was a bit like the lantern places men go at night, all surface and no real elegance. Though the surface had certainly been chipped, here, too. The red on the sign over the door was almost black under the gas streetlight just by it, and the window boasted some items that were practical, and some that were ornamental. Scara might have been the fanciest shop in a frontier town overseas, with its scattered focus, but slight lean toward better things, but in Berna it couldn't hold a candle, especially to someone like the young lady Crowley, who'd seen this continent's best.

Though Samuel Torrick didn't know that when she stepped in. He liked to keep himself with the best knowledge of the upper crust - it was no secret he would like to climb in society - but the good tailoring on a cheap fabric told his story too well. Double breasted over a barrel gut, with a hat, but still serving at his own store. An entrepreneur, but one that hadn't hit as hard as he'd like. Among the wares there was mostly things that sailors liked, and some came in bulk - he had the world to buy from at these docks, so he had his pick - but there was a lonely shelf with a couple of weapons too. A clue as to why a certain Berrenger came her, maybe?

Samuel was all too happy to show her in toward his 'gallery of treasures' and lifted a red drape at the end of two other exits to the store after he'd seen the card. This one led down at a shallow angle, and opened up to a cellar with half windows sharing two walls and their ceiling. Objects were placed with plenty of space between them on white shelves that were well kept and cleaned. Some of it were trinkets from the orient, and others were more expensive bottles of drink. She would recognize another vintage of the brandy that had bought her Sharlan's audience. That man was in a corner balancing the entirety of a small spear on one finger, likely to judge its weight distribution and thereby some of its quality and use. Today her newest friend had a cropped jacket on, a deep blue, that opened up onto to the same purple he'd worn on their last meeting. At his hips a sturdy dueling blade hung, and crossing that belt, a silver something hung on his other side. At closer inspection, if she was interested, it'd be a lithe silver hatchet in a black leather sheath. Samuel had no trouble leaving them alone.

"This is not from the orient." the Berrenger deemed sourly and flipped the horizontal stick and its stone end. He caught it after three spins and rolled it between three fingers. "It's whittled by a saxon craving knife and it follows a northern european original." Obviously, it was not labeled as such. He was particularly displeased, she'd see by his frown, as he dropped it vertically. When the tip stuck true to the floor it did earn itself a begrudging 'hm', from the duelist. False things that do a job well enough, are still useful.

He came over to her. His boots made sounds but not as much as other designs might on the same floor. He was hoping she'd concealed herself in some way, so he could reach into the hood and caress her hair and protection with one motion, unmasking her. They'd stood like this last time too. He'd thought about her and put her face on last night's girl who'd taken glint and items off the tavern menu instead of wits and promises. Her hoarse moans were nothing like Zora's voice, but she was good and enthusiastic company. Happy whores are a compliment to the John.

"You're beautiful." he breathed and took his hands back. "you look like an easy payday." he added, all too proud of himself.

 

[bathymcbath]

The following morning Zora ached to stay in bed. She woke with a start from a strange dream of being lost and frightened and dashing through trees obscured by fog, which mysteriously parted when she came upon a dark amber lake. She’d slept poorly and now nursed a headache, compliments of the brandy she’d shared with Sharlan Berrenger at the Libera. Unfortunately, there was no time for lounging. She had a full day planned before she was to meet Sharlan at the address on his battered old calling card.

She started the day in a pastel frock, cinched tight at the waist by her lady’s maid, Margaret. Margaret had wanted to pin Zora’s hair with a feathered comb to match her pale yellow dress, but Zora announced cheerily that they were going out after breakfast and she’d need her bonnet. She did not feel the cheer that so carefully animated her face, but Margaret belonged more to the Viscount than she did to Zora and Zora didn’t trust her.

At breakfast, Zora began her bit of theater for her father’s benefit. She bemoaned loudly how she missed her mother and couldn’t wait to see her. She talked about what a dreadfully hot day it was going to be and how she hoped there was enough water in the stream down the lane from her mother’s household that she could wade through it at midday tomorrow.

Tomorrow. She wasn’t set to leave to visit her mother until tomorrow. She still didn’t understand how she could have miscalculated the dates of the King’s Sorrow’s route, but she also had no time to worry over it. Instead she’d laid awake puzzling over how best to adjust her plans to accommodate the earlier arrival. If she changed her departure at the last minute her father would become suspicious and her deception would crumble under even his mildest scrutiny. He was a naturally distrusting fellow, particularly where it concerned his daughter, who he knew to be wild even by his indulgent standards.

Leaving nothing to chance, Zora chose prattling. Her father couldn’t stand it. In fact, she nearly couldn’t stand it, either. She was a woman of comfortable silences and unspoken understandings, too. But clever as he was, the Viscount was blinded by his daughter’s gender, and whenever she started working herself up to a proper ramble it never seemed to occur to him that this was starkly out of character for Zora. Instead, quite reliably, he sought to be rid of her. At once.

“Why don’t you just go, then,” he snapped finally, tossing down the little stack of correspondence he’d been attempting to read. “What’s a day to your mother? What busy schedule might you ruin? Do you think she’s got some grand party planned for you and her and the goats? Go!”

Zora hid her smile behind her tea cup and nodded. “Yes, Father,” she said. And then, after a moment of meek silence she tsk’d. “I’ve annoyed you,” she said, and got up to kiss his cheek. “I’ll stay a week for your peace.”

“Well, that’s not - “ he began, but she waved him off.

“You’re good to indulge me as you do. You deserve some quiet, and I get along well enough with Captain Greyhorn. Mother has developed him into an excellent dinner companion.”

Her father gave a jolt and began to stand. “Just who in the hell is Captain Greyhorn?”

Zora gave him a serene smile and strolled out of the dining room. When he yelled after her she laughed and called, “It’s the goat, Father.” She winked at the footman on her way out. She imagined she saw his lips twitch with the effort not to laugh at the undignified noise the Viscount made as he sat back down in his chair.

It took little maneuvering to dodge the encumbrance of her father’s carriages. He kept only two, a formal town coach and a daily runabout. Although capable of supporting many more, Crowley House had traditionally operated with an economic staff, and this ran to groomsmen and drivers as it did to butlers, maids and footmen. Idle servants were known to quicken the undoing of a great house, and so Crowley made sure theirs were worked hard and paid well, too busy and too fat to waste time with plotting. If Zora was to stay gone a week, it made sense that she would hire a carriage. This meant the carriage driver was not, strictly speaking, a Crowley man, and he could be bribed to leave without her and post a letter on her behalf when he arrived at the hamlet near her mother’s country house.

She had the carriage drop her at the mouth of an alley that ran behind her favorite dress shop and asked him to leave her luggage on the street. The driver looked at her strangely, but did as he was bid and left her there. Zora carried her bags - one cumbersome trunk and a lighter leather pack - the rest of the way. She stepped carefully and breathed even more carefully, mindful of the filth.

At the dressmaker’s, Zora unloaded the contents of her trunk. She brought four dresses to sell in exchange for a decent purse, which she would use for petty expenses over the course of the next few days. She also brought a change of costume for herself, shedding the buttery yellow slippers and frock in favor of more practical gear. She wore a long tailed riding jacket that flared at the waist and provided the same voluminous veil of modesty that a gown would do - at least when viewing her from the back. In front, the fitted jacket ended at the waist and revealed her legs, clad in black trousers which were bloused and tucked into sturdy black boots just above the knee. Under her jacket she wore a loose fitting white blouse and a velvet vest. She dressed in the style of the lady duelists, not entirely unheard of among society ladies, nor was it the standard. She was nearly as well armed as a duelist, as well.

Zora was not an intimidating figure. She had always known this and so had her teachers. She was not trained for brawling or swordplay. She’d been trained with daggers and throwing knives and shown how to cut a man so the heart stopped fast. For someone like Zora, it was critical to strike first and true, because she likely wasn’t getting up after a proper strike from someone who meant it. The inside panels of her vests held three double-edged throwing knives each. The handles were wrapped in dark leather for a secure grip. Inside her left boot she kept a small stiletto. Her right boot itself was a weapon; if she kicked firmly with her left toe against its heel, a spring-loaded blade would emerge from the toe.

She was competent with her blades, but not gifted. She still received her weekly lessons and had done so since childhood. It was the Viscount’s condition that Zora could move freely about the high town without an armed guard if and only if she continued her lessons, which consisted of more grueling physical labors than actual learning, which annoyed Zora endlessly. All of her lady peers were soft and, well, ample. Zora was leaner than the fashion, her breasts small, her waist taut. She felt girlish next to society women, whose bodices overflowed with corseted mounds of quivering flesh. Zora blamed the training, and perhaps the frequent day-long horseback rides she would take out on her mother’s estate. But primarily she blamed the training for her figure because it was convenient to do so. Over all this gear, she wore a dark gray cloak, primarily because she did not have a black one with a hood. The hem of the cloak was sewn with glinting silver thread, which belied the fine quality of the otherwise nondescript item.

After the customary amount of dickering, the dressmaker paid Zora her purse. They talked a while longer, after which exchange the dressmaker produced a note for Zora to sign and then handed over something Zora had never seen before. She bet her father had only seen a handful in his time, and she thought about asking the dressmaker exactly how he came by such a rare treasure. They were not in the habit of asking one another complicated questions, however, so she instead accepted the bella coin and bit it. The dressmaker looked offended and Zora smiled apologetically as she tucked the evidently genuine coin into her vest. There were only a thousand of the King’s Beauties in circulation. They were minted during a time of strife and paid to the Crown’s favorites as rewards for loyalty during a time when such things ran thin. They had no collateral backing them then. Their only value was spoken into existence by Bellacourte’s father’s father. But the king’s favorites had spent the coins, and they were legal tender, and through the circulation of the pretend bellas, fortunes were redistributed from war-fat merchants back to the noble houses where they belonged. To refuse a King’s Beauty was treason, and over time their imagined value was made reality by the casual pillaging of the working class. Zora smiled at the thought of handing over this rare artifact as payment.

When Zora was done conducting her business in town and the dressmaker had agreed to store her traveling trunk, she went to find the Scara. From the weathered card Sharlan had handed her, she could find no clues to suggest what kind of establishment she would be visiting and she had prepared herself for some den of depravity. She was pleasantly surprised to find instead that he had summoned her to a shop. She went in and gave the card to the portly attendant, who ushered her further into the shop. Zora braced herself once more for the true nature of the shop to be revealed to her. She imagined a secret mist parlor filled with women of ill repute or even a damp thieves’ hideaway, and once again there was only more shop. Coming to a stop on just his side of the red curtain, Zora paused to drink Sharlan in while he wasn’t looking back at her.

She’d spent the better part of the day successfully not thinking of him. When she had no choice but to think of him, she reassured herself that she would be stoic and unaffected today. She would not be intoxicated and she would not be goaded to anger. She repeated this to herself any time his smirking face surfaced in her thoughts and she viciously forced it back down. He was an employee. Not her first, and certainly not her last. Now she watched him evaluate the spear he held, then twirl it deftly between his fingers, impressed. He cut a less menacing figure when his intense focus was aimed elsewhere and she could look without feeling like a hungry wolf looked back at her. She looked her fill, ricocheting back and forth between his handling of the spear and the cut of his shoulders, his long legs, the weapons that adorned him. This easy appraisal was familiar, from the days when his house was still thriving and she would see him at tournament. She looked then, too, and so did all the girls. If it had still been the fashion they would have offered their favors and made outrageous eyes at Sharlan then, but it was the fashion to be reserved and let the men sort out courtship between themselves. They might have even been a likely pair for an arranged marriage in another life, she mused. Her reminiscence was cut short when he dropped the spear and it lodged loudly in the floor, and then he looked at her.

By the time she flinched back from him, he’d already pushed back her hood and danced away. She swept a hand as if to bat him away despite the fact he’d already retreated on his own terms, and she looked at him sourly and fought the urge to pat at her hair. She didn't know why she thought a day apart might have transformed his behavior, as well, but for some reason she'd believed it would. Perhaps she thought that once the job had commenced his professionalism might take root and he'd behave as she'd seen the duelists in her father's employ do. He would be ... obedient. Would he not? She ignored the tendril of doubt that thought inspired and shoved that down, too. It was too late to reconsider, anyway. She despised the way he teased her, the way he effortlessly undermined all her great esteem for herself with a few choice words and touches. Beautiful. He wasn't really even trying, was he? It was the kind of compliment that could be applied to anyone and anything. Cheap.

“Speaking of which,” she said, without so much as a compulsory greeting. He'd mentioned pay days, after all. She reached into the inside breast of her vest and withdrew the bella coin, flipping it into the air between them, inviting him to catch it. As it flew she said, "Afraid you'll have to spend it all in one place." She didn't laugh at him outright, but humor shone in her eyes when she said it. She liked the idea of him forced to keep banker's hours for even just one day, just long enough to trade the coin into something that would spend in brothels and gambling parlors.

 

[Verse]

He knew the meter of her feet. Scara was a good place to get odd things, and he thought Samuel's philosophies were reassuringly predictable, so he relied on the Scara for all things not-elicit to purchase when he was out and about. For number of visits, it saw him more than the brothels, but, of course, the brothels won when counting hours spent. But for all its good points, it wasn't made for people like him, which meant its cheap carpets and flooring wouldn't dull the sound of soles. Apart from noone going in here at this hour, and that he'd set this date with the lady of Crowley house, her walking rhythm was unmistakable, even after just the few steps she'd taken inside his booth. So Sharlan knew she was there, even when he continued to discount and then slightly redeem the spear in his head.

He thought she was fetching and therefor easy to approach. She gave good responses, again, to his prodding. And when he lifted her hood she would retort, but if girl hands, even nimble ones, were enough to catch him, he'd be dead under the moon many times. This time, when he eyed her, the lechery quickly faded to some other interest. Like when a lady mentions boxing, or some other activity that amuses men. Her clothing was familiar to him, and after the initial acknowledgement of it, discarding it as a girl playing dressup, he saw she wore it with a bit of competence. Wouldn't that be the day, if the Crowley darling would fight her own duels? Pants looked good on her. They were too pristine to have seen real challenges. Still, he gave her the same 'hm' as the spear when it stuck.

He was a bit confused, and perhaps a bit distracted, what with her hand closing to her breast, when she retrieved the payment from her person. It was not the pouch he'd assumed. But his nostrils flared a bit when he realized the viscount daughter would not play with payment so crassly. His hand lifted and came down to catch the glittering coin before it could even finish its upward arch after her sending it off. His thumb already knew the details on the metal face when he turned his palm to see.

"This..." he said and closed his digits around it. The first squeeze suggested he was doing with the pressure what she had done with her teeth, at the dressmaker's. And then he opened to look at it again. He was lost in it for a moment, and then he looked at her, searching her face for something, almost insulted already, before he settled down when he found her earnest, and pocketed the coin inside his own jacket. Though the outwear stayed buttoned, she'd see an orange leather vest underneath when he shifted it to make room for his hand and forearm. "Thank you, Miss Crowley." he said with uncharacteristic adhesion to the civil response. A nod would have to do instead of the intrusive bows she knew him for.

While duelists were well braided into society, and a possible step to leave your station for better castes, their glory was not in its hayday. Back when they'd saved the crown from invasion, there had been these coins, too. They were proof of his blood's valor. He touched his chest where the coin laid against his etui and looked at her again, chin raised but out of some other emotion than pride. "You pay a Berrenger with a bella coin?" he asked. It rung rhetorical, almost simple, but her being of her blood, and him being of his, this echoed enough of The Edge of Evening event that had started the duelist economy. Maybe he had underestimated her. Was she just finding a way to make sure he was loyal through this?

He didn't know. This duel he lost.

 

[bathymcbath]

Zora was not expecting a reaction from Sharlan. He was the irreverent sort, flaunting decorum, flaunting propriety. He seemed to revel in toying with her. He did not seem like the kind of man who would appreciate the histories of the noble families, never mind regarding them with earnest sentiment. When he touched his chest, she thought he mocked her and she may have reacted if not for the strange tone in his voice when he spoke. It was a question, but she didn’t think he meant for her to answer. She felt doubt, wondered if he might be genuine, and then dismissed the thought as she dismissed every other thought of Sharlan. She reminded herself that it didn’t matter either way what emotion he did or didn’t feel. He was only a distraction if she allowed him to be.

Seeking to break the solemn intimacy of the moment and find herself back on solid footing, she stepped away from him and bothered for the first time to notice the shop around her. She noted the brandy and the look on her face betrayed her physical remorse, hinting at the truth of her hangover that morning. She thought the liquor rather overpriced for the ruin it left her in that morning, a malaise from which she was only just reviving.

“Have you finished your shopping, then?” she asked with a curated air of boredom. “Shall we go?”

 

[Verse]

He didn't know what he'd expected, and he thought there was a moment of resonance there. He might have been pushing her too much, like he did with all of them, because they were lovely when they broke, and that was a state he always sought out for them. She did not stay with him on the sentiment about his family, and whatever pride he had in its role in shaping this country, and protecting Berna, and making it the world capitol it was today. He was above that, wasn't he, Mr. Detached with a sword, bastard with blades. And still he was a bit bitter.

But he tried to smile when she looked at the brandy. Brand Riverwood. They had cheaper iterations that he could afford to drink a lot of, but the vintage here, and the one she'd treated him to that he'd brought along when he left the opera, had been glints above his usual. His recovery based on that little glee was not enough to cure the insult of her dismissal. "Yes. Off we go." he answered with strained lethargy.

And they did go off.

The stone here was rougher than in central Berna. The carts did well on it, though. King Lester took enough care to move the wares of his country. Over all, he was not a bad ruler in the line. Maybe marrying a lesser noble had grounded him, or maybe he was a romantic. Either way, some of his decisions smelled enough of idealism that the lower classes would follow him, and the higher ones were a bit disgruntled. Times were not in need of great movements from kings. Maybe that was a good thing. At least the cobble stones in the center were polished.

The little house was a well kept shed, rather, a bit too far from the docks to be entirely useful. There was carpet inside, as promised, after Sharlan had convinced the mechanism of the lock open. Hay in a corner and an oil lamp hung up. A table and two boxes to sit on. The window, somehow, still had its glass. He stood by it and pointed. "That's were The Sorrow lands." he said and put a gloved finger to the pain. She'd see the vacant spot almost right head of them. The dock post was well used but better kept than the others. "When asked, the captains usually say they got in earlier and wanted to let the crew out closer to the lantern district." he explained.

Her duelist shifted a bit though, and that finger pressed harder against the glass, when a group of men came to his attention, a bit further away. He leaned closer. "Those aren't dock workers." he said with a tense jaw. He could tell by gaits. These were synced enough to be at least militia. But militia waiting for hidden boat goods weren't militia.

 

[bathymcbath]

Zora followed Sharlan down the cobbled streets, her thoughts racing despite her calm exterior. As they approached the little house Sharlan had mentioned, she took in the exterior with an assessing eye. It was an unremarkable, run-down shed, blending into the dockside's chaotic backdrop.

Sharlan unlocked the door, and Zora stepped inside cautiously. The interior was just as dismal as she expected—dusty, with a threadbare carpet and a flickering oil lamp. Hay was scattered in one corner, and the air smelled musty. The shed had a rickety table and two boxes for seats. Zora noticed a small window with cracked glass and approached it, following Sharlan's finger as he pointed out the dock where the King's Sorrow would soon arrive.

She hadn’t expected dinner service or an orchestra, but when she imagined what sort of place Sharlan might keep near the docks, she’d had at least some shabby finery in mind for it. Candlesticks, perhaps. Liquor, certainly.

“What is this place even for,” she asked, eyeing the mound of hay in the corner with something like distaste. At that precise moment Sharlan said, ”Those aren’t dock workers,” and Zora forgot her judgments as quickly as they had come to her. She closed the short distance to the window and stood next to Sharlan, looking where he looked. She only saw a group of men traversing the docks. She didn’t see the threat he saw and the expression she wore when she looked at him said so plainly.

“How can you be certain?” she asked, glancing from his face back to the men.

 

[Verse]

"It's a place I found." he explained. It was very unassuming, and people would go past it without thinking to look inside. Once it may have held rope for the larger ships, now it was mainly forgotten. Whoever owned it did not claim it. There was blood in the hay if you knew to look for it. He'd stayed the night here while they looked for him outside a couple of times.

The sword by his side caught a streak from the lamp when she asked about the men after having come closer again. On her glance she'd see the swelling of a muscle at the angle of his jaw, still looking at the group. "They don't walk like sailors. They walk like fighters." he explained. He looked at her like her reaction might unlock more information for him. She hadn't known about this. He looked out the window, this time toward the sea. "When The Sorrow comes, we need to get on board for your papers." he said at the waves. Good conditions to come in.

"There'll be some time when they talk for us to slip in and find the captain's cabin. You'll know what to look for, I assume?" he said and hung his hand on the hatchet. A quick throwaway glance kept his attention. He nodded at the sea. "There she is." And there she was. Just a few lights right now, but their ship was coming.

 

[bathymcbath]

A small frown tilted the corners of Zora’s mouth downward, accompanied by a wrinkle in her brow. She stared hard at the alleged fighters. She willed herself to see the way Sharlan saw, to notice their gaits, the way they held their weight. She thought perhaps she caught a hint of something different, but it was just as likely her imagination. She didn’t see people this way, which is why she was paying Sharlan in the first place. She was suddenly more glad of his presence next to her.

She looked up at him, noticed the set of his jaw, the tense flicker of a muscle there, and then she met his eyes when he looked at her. He was serious now, in a way that he hadn’t been when she’d approached him at the Libera. There’d been perhaps a hint of it at the shop. An absence of something. She was coming to think of it as Sharlan’s own brand of lightheartedness, although she hesitated to apply such a label to his heated looks and mocking mouth. Whatever it was, it was not there now, leaving only the hardened duelist behind. She began to understand that he considered these fighting men to be serious and that he was behaving as the professional she paid for. It was growing more and more difficult to pretend she wasn’t in danger.

“I don’t just want papers,” she said, her voice sounding thin to her own ears. “I need to get into the hold, I need to see what it is, how much of it there is. It’s meant to be pineapples, for God’s sake.” She was more and more certain that it wouldn’t be pineapples.

After another moment of contemplation she asked softly, looking away from him, “Could you take on that many?”

 

[Verse]

He was ready to discount her when she started talking again, which he should know by know he shouldn't. She'd shown herself serious enough at enough points throughout this that he should learn there was something there in her, other than a pampered girl petitioning for adventure. And this lot coming should also assure him she was right, at least in part. But he was still surprised when she pushed.

He nodded at her mention of fruit. They were a luxury, but pineapples weren't really worth this kind of protection. She did demand a lot, though. He looked out the window again, more intently. "They have two duelists among them. I know them." he started. "They're specialists, both in rapier. The other five are lead foots." He dragged his tongue on the inside of his lower teeth, thinking about tactics. And then he nodded.

"Miss Crowley." he said and knocked quietly on the window with casual bloodlust in his eyes, still staring at the men that had now been painted his opponents by her. In the little light that favored the valleys of his features and left the hills bone white, he was monstrous for an instant. A cold, eternal kind of monster. "If you ever see an obstacle, and think any man might best it, then I can take it." His determination was the kind that her masters had, when reiterating knowledge from vetted books.

 

[bathymcbath]

“Well, better not to get caught, I think,” she said, a bit disingenuously. She was fascinated by the shadow that passed over his face. Momentarily, Sharlan’s humanity seemed to bleed away. He was reptilian in his coldness, and so confident, and there was a small part of her that did indeed wish to see him employ those skills that made him so certain. She was reassured by his bravado. Under any other circumstances, she would have rolled her eyes at such an outrageous claim, but in that moment she needed to hear it. It lightened the weight that sat upon her chest and she nearly swayed with relief.

She shifted her right foot, a simple turn of the ankle just so she could be reassured by the tensile strength of the dagger. It held firm against her curving boot when she peeled her insole away from the floor. When she took a deep breath, her lungs were unhindered by her customary restrictive corset and she could just make out the hard press of the daggers inside her vest. She was fast, she reminded herself, and explosive. With one moderately well placed hand-hold, her vertical could launch her over a garden wall in a pinch, or up some rigging. She was small, and she fit through gaps and into spaces where most men couldn’t. She could run if she had to. She could run.

She repeated these details over in her head, convincing herself that she wouldn’t come to harm. They would be stealthy and they wouldn’t be caught, but if it came to that Sharlan would do his job. And if he couldn’t, she would run.

She nodded, pressing her mouth into a thin, determined line. “The hold first. Then the cabin if there’s time. I wouldn’t mind having the ship’s manifest, after all.”

 

[Verse]

She was confident in her own engagement in this. At least that was something. But there was no quiet madness given to her by her riches and the umbrella of her station. He was glad. Crowley had come to him without compromise in her will, but with a refreshing lack of illusions too. At the very least, this ordeal was pure, in that sense. She needed the truth for herself. How many quests to quell his own obsessions had he gone through? He shook his head and looked at the floor with a dismissive, amused huff through his nose when she repeated the plan. "As easy as that?" he asked and looked at her, lighthearted like a damned person looking at a cellmate.

She was beautiful. Small but healthy. Temptingly unspoiled. He thought quickly about letting these men have her when time came, if he could have the first go. It would satisfy him to betray her, and enact some kind of revenge on the people who should have been his equals by debasing her. It would satisfy his itches too, to see if the littlest of the Crowley House would feel perfectly tight around him when she screamed her lungs out, mortified and used. He swallowed at the images. She'd learn a lesson then, that would keep her away from these adventures. How generous of him.

"We have better go now then. They'll be more alert the closer she comes." he said and blinked himself out of his red imaginings. "They're coming fast."

Outside was cold, and the wind tugged at his hair, but the hairtie was valiant, as always. It still let a few black fangs court the outline of his face. Their colors were good in the night, and once the King's Sorrow was tied, there was enough bustle of the troupe they'd seen and the crew of the ship that he only needed to pick a time to take her quickly onto the bridge. "Hollander and Dermot." he said when they passed the backs of the ones he'd identified as fighters, haggling with someone without authority to grant their wishes, by the sound of it. She would know he meant the duelists. Just by their better coats she might have guessed herself, knowing.

It was on their way to the stairs of the open hold that he had to pull her back into a niche that had likely held more acute luggage for the crew, because the rope that usually sealed it off was just dangling, sans its purpose. They were half concealed by the shadow created by a lamp, and he took the freedom of securing her back to his torso, arm crossing under her breasts and hand oppressing her mouth but leaving her nose as three men walked the corridor. He held her a little longer and tighter, lifting her breast more than needed and forcing the belly of a finger deeper between her lips. But eventually the footfalls bid him let go, so he did.

The hold was just there, and the voices were mostly on the bridge or on the docks. He nodded at her to hurry.