The Fourth looked around. Trouble? Only just met her, he thought, gaze alighting on the Lady Lark as she sang her song. The Inkspider were overly fond of smoke and mystery, or so he had come to believe over the course of their service. Good information was worth its weight in gold, and their relationship with the First and Last was practically symbiotic in that regard.

'That he does,' replied Fourth, a knowing look in his eye. Stitches wounds, too. For the right price. But then she likely knew that already.

Soft laughter warmed the space between blade and bard. The mercenary shook his head. 'Not everyone wears the limelight so blithely as you, Anira,' he said, placing his back to the bar, arms folded. When she spoke of well-informed acquaintances, he nearly smiled. 'Figured as much.'

Nobody, be they lord or layperson, ended up in a place like The Last Drop by accident. That Anira had booked a room in such an establishment came as no surprise. But he was curious.

'Fourth,' he corrected Anira politely, casting a glance over his shoulder at the barman, only somewhat perturbed by the way she had revealed his identity so carelessly. 'I'll have what the Lady's having,' he told the orkin, turning back to watch the room. 'Please, do try to avoid using my name, Little Lark.' Number. Whatever.

'Make something up if you have to. You're a bard, should come as second-nature to you.'
 
Corrected. Directed.

Anira let out a long, put-upon sigh, the kind perfected by artists, divas, and people who absolutely refused to be managed. Creatives hated nothing more than being corrected in public, Anira was no different. She gave him a look that was all long lashes of disbelief.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the barman, then back to The Fourth. Annoyance lived only in the way her fingers tapped once against her cup. “Mm,” she hummed lightly. “Noted.” Her gaze traveled him once more. She didn’t get it. She never would. To her, a name was a hook. Fame was a tool, just like fear. "You look like a Johannes."

“I will never understand this reverence of hush-hush," Which might be rich coming from the daughter of one of the most accomplished con artists ever. "You belong to a renowned fraternity of blades. Whispered about. Feared in alleyways." She tipped her cup toward him, eyes glinting. “You could use that. A little reputation goes a long way."

A pause. A sip of wine. “But fine, keep your secrets then, Johannes.” Anira turned on her heel, leaned an elbow onto the bar like she owned the place. “Darling,” she said to the barkeep. “I’d very much like a word with Nenne.”
 
"You look like a Johannes."

'So I've been told.' Her annoyance did not faze him, anymore than the quiet disbelief in her eyes. A reputation was all well and good until someone wielded it against you. The Hollow Man was proof enough of that. 'A fraternity of blades, huh?' The Fourth shook his head once more. Disappointed. 'I understand now why it is you wish to confer with the Spider.' Rarely did the mercenary sip from the cup of pettiness. He found wine to be much sweeter.

The barman grunted at Anira's request, eyes darting to a young half-elf sat in the corner.

A tilt of the head, and the youngster was on his feet. 'Wait a moment,' said the orkin, voice like granite. 'Someone'll come for you shortly.' The Fourth nodded, head down as the man shuffled off. 'Well, well, well. Seems your reputation really does precede you,' smiled the blade, sharp as drawn steel, but not nearly so cruel.

'Done biz with this Nenne before?' He asked, curious, and cautious. 'Figured out what the price will be?'
 
A fraternity of blades, the way that had landed, as if she’d named them a butcher’s guild.

“If,” the bard said at last, “you already know where Lady Selani is… now would be the most charming time to mention it.” A pause, tight as a held breath. If he knew where Lady Selani was, now would indeed be the moment to mention it. “It would save us all a great deal of walking...” Anira waited for it. Nothing came. Then the orkin’s grunt drew her attention, and she followed his glance just in time to see the half-elf rise.

When "Johannes" asked about Nenne, she smiled. “We’ve crossed paths..." Before he could press further, soft padding footsteps approached. A chimpanzee, neatly wearing a tailored blue waistcoat and trousers, paused before them and tilted its head. Anira blinked once. The chimp gestured with one long finger, beckoning them to follow.

“Oh. Of course, Calki” she said warmly. The bard paused just as the chimp disappeared through the side door.

The price.

She turned back to The Fourth, her expression thoughtful rather than coy for once. Anira let out a soft, almost musical hum. “Ah. Yes. That...” She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as though sharing gossip rather than strategy. “They already know who you are, my fault." A light tap of her finger against his chest. “And the fact that one of the Hungry Eight is here at all? The Inkspider do love to collect useful people.” They would ask for him. A favor. A future debt.

“So perhaps...” The Minstrel went on, “this is the moment where you don't follow me, but you do what you do best?"
 
The Fourth grunted. 'Collect. Coerce.' The Inkspider wouldn't bury him in debt, maybe, but they would do little to keep him from drowning in it. Whatever price they asked for in exchange for their services would be steep, and the Fourth wasn't sure whether or not he would be able to repay it. And unsure is as good as fucked in this business, he grimaced, meeting the bardess's baby blue eyes.

A small smile creased his lips as their thoughts intertwined.

'And what might that be?' Pushing off from the bar, the mercenary rolled his shoulders, allowing his gaze to play across the room before returning to Anira. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'You don't have to answer that. Go, work your magic.' Turning, the Fourth's smile curdled as he watched Calki wander off.

'Any other time and I might have found the sight of a chimp in a waistcoat amusing,' he spoke softly, voice lowered, posture relaxed. 'What you said... about saving us all a great deal of walking?' Slowly, as if by accident, the blade closed on the bard.

'I don't know where Mistress Selani is now,' he whispered, 'but I know where she was headed.'

Placing a guiding hand behind her back, the Fourth encouraged Anira to walk in front, slipping into her shadow like a ghost. Legend held he was one; might as well live up to it. 'Southern Portside, near the Gallowhouse. It's where the rich go to play with the poor. I lost the trail there.'

Drawing to a halt, the Fourth leant against the nearest doorpost, arms folded against his chest.

'Good luck in there,' he smiled, though it appeared more like a frown. 'I'll be nearby if you need me.'
 
“Collect, coerce?” she echoed, tilting her head. “How grim you make it sound. I prefer to think of it as… gather and encourage.” A soft laugh followed, bright as a plucked string. The Inkspider doesn’t twist arms. They offered ...alternatives. People simply choose the one that hurts least. He would be surprised how often that feels like kindness. Her gaze lingered on him, the most sincere she'd been all day.

'And what might that be?'

“What you did at House Mandamor!” she replied quickly, smiling up at him. As his hand settled on her back, she even leaned back into his palm as they walked. “Oh, good,” she said lightly. Gallowhouse. Where the rich go to play with the poor. “I was beginning to worry this search might turn out to be almost pleasant.”

The passage beyond opened into a garden, lanterns hanging from carved arches, scent from hibiscus and night-blooming jasmine heavy in the air. Water murmured everywhere, channels cut through the garden like veins. Mango trees leaned over tiled paths. Lotus flowers floated in a shallow pond. Anira slowed when she spotted it. In the pond, half-hidden among lily pads, a big octopus, intelligent eyes followed their movement. Its skin shifted and faded in waves, pearl white to indigo to oil-slick green to a deep wine purple that rippled into black. “Behave, you inky bastard,” the minstrel murmured.

Beyond the pool, beneath a canopy of silk and carved teak, sat Nenne. Calki halted before the low pavilion. The old woman sat amid cushions and hanging bells, eyes clouded. The chimp moved to Nenne's side at once.

“Evening, Nenne.” the bard greeted the old blind woman, “I see you’ve contained that octopus finaly.” A corner of Nenne’s mouth twitched. “So… have you seen my father?” Nenne’s fingers twitched. “Elias has not been here in months.” Anira blinked. “And you’d know if he’d been sneaking about, I take it?” Nenne sighed, insulted by the question. Nenne’s blind eyes were turned toward the bard, voice low, calm in a dangerous way. “Really, Lady Lark… did you come here to ask questions you already know the answers to? About your father?”

The bardess twirled a blodne strand of hair around a finger. “No, Spider, I’m looking for Lady Selani. The trail went cold at the Gallowhouse, and here I am.” The old Inkspider clicked her tongue. “And can you pay?” Anira let out a dramatic sigh and pressed her hand over her chest as if she were wounded.

“Price!? You really want to talk about price!? You owe me! Remember your nephew and that dinner?!"
 
House Mandamor had been child's play, truth be told. Stewards and serviles asked few questions of their peers, since most of them were too caught up with keeping up to notice a new addition to the household. Well, except for the likes of Azimidas. Keeper of secrets, the Fourth almost grinned. Wonder what he kept from us?

The passageway led to a secluded garden. Sunlight bore down on them from on high. Had she chanced to look over her shoulder, Anira might have noticed the absence of her companion. But then they both had a part to play in this particular subterfuge.

And, my, does she play her's well! The Fourth thought to himself, sticking to the shadowed eaves, the illusion he wove about himself perfected through decades of practise down to the last, minute detail. Still. Overconfidence was a cruel and insidious killer, and relying solely on his weavework to see him to through was not something the mercenary counted on. Besides, the Inkspider never skimped on security.

The first ward he came across was an obvious ploy. An alarum meant to send would-be eavesdroppers and thieves scattering. The second was the real deal; a disillusion spell woven into a column. Subtle. Part of the floral patterns etched into the stone.

Beyond it, a figure sat slumped upon a bench, head down, arms folded. If not for the stiffness in his limbs, the Fourth might've thought him sleeping. A hilt protruded from beneath the man's padded jacket.

A short blade, as it happened, more knife than sword.

The man didn't even stir as the Fourth passed him by. Featherlight steps left no trail to follow. And with his eyes closed, the guard wasn't like to spot much. Probably bored. Oh well.

Settling down amidst stone and shadow, the Fourth found a quiet spot to observe the pavilion from. Voices flew to him upon the breeze. Half-formed things with stunted wings. The mercenary knew better than to discard them entirely.
 
Nenne’s head tilted, just a fraction, just a degree angle.

"You said he was handsome and smart!! All he talked about was his collection of daggers, who he had killed and what dagger he'd used!" Anira sighed, long-suffering and dramatic. "Daggers, daggers, daggers. Curved ones, hooked ones, ones for ribs, ones for kidneys. Who he’d killed, when he’d killed them, which blade had ‘felt right’ for the occasion.” A shudder. “I know more about the intimate relationship between steel and internal organs than any bard should.” The minstrel went on.

The old, blind woman laughed then, a low, rasping sound that seemed to crawl out of her chest rather than rise from it. She shifted in her seat, and the light finally caught her properly. She was small, almost swallowed by her robes, but nothing about her was fragile. Her dark skin was etched with age and old scars. Her hair, once black, now hung in long silvered cords braided tight against her skull, threaded with beads of shining jet, bright red coral and dull gold. Blind eyes stole the light like cloudy pearls. They stared nowhere and everywhere at once. Nenne's mouth, though, still full-lipped, still dangerous. A mouth that had signed deaths with a smile.

“My nephew,” Nenne said, voice slower now, savoring it. “You make him sound like a tragedy.”

The bard rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall straight our of her skull. "He did not even had the courtesy of wearing a clean shirt for dinner.”

Nenne's blind gaze snapped back to Anira in an uncanny manner. "Don’t you dare pretend that dinner was a burden, little nightingale. You sang him halfway to bed and laughed the rest of the way." A smile cut across the old face. "You enjoy dangerous men and I recognize the habit.”

Anira scoffed, a bright, offended sound. “Oh please,” she said. "A scar here, bad reputation there. Un truc piquant. But there’s a difference between dangerous and tedious." she went on, wagging a finger as if lecturing Nenne. “Yeah, fine, I enjoy a man with a little edge,”

“Mm,” Nenne murmured, blind eyes unfocused and yet somehow cutting sideways, past the bard. Her bony fingers lifted, crooked, beckoning at nothing at all to come closer. Or so it seemed.

"A man with a little edge.” Nenne repeated mildly and she tilted her head toward that nothing-place. “Like that one?”
 
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'Which one?' It was a rare thing, scaring an Inkspider. Luckily, the Fourth had been given plenty of opportunity to practise over the years, on mercs and marked men aplenty. Folk like Nenne spun their webs, ensnaring the foolish and the unfortunate, but they never expected to be caught themselves.

Blind eyes swivelled to find the Fourth standing at her shoulder. Within arm's reach. Close enough that he could smell the perfume she wore, see the old slave scars ringing her neck, where a collar had once rested.

How swiftly fortunes change, thought the Fourth, taking a step back and to the side.

'My apologies, mistress,' he said, bowing at the waist, 'I did not mean to surprise you.' Alas, a bald-faced lie, even one delivered perfectly, could still be seen through. Besides, that was exactly what he had meant to do, and Nenne knew it. Surprisingly perceptive for a blind woman, the mercenary mused, ignoring the figures that appeared in his periphery, but not the one on the roof.

'So. Was it your intention to test my security or do you simply enjoy dancing the knife's edge?'

Smoothing out the skirts of her robes, Nenne folded her hands in her lap, bony fingers interwined. To keep them from shaking, the Fourth figured. She had a reputation to uphold.

'No, and yes, mistress. Though, unlike your dear cousin, I try to avoid killing those who have done nothing to deserve it.' The mercenary's words drew a soft titter from the Inkspider. 'My, my! So the rumours about you are true,' she smiled. 'A fool with a conscience. Careful you don't grow soft, killer. Anira here likes her men with a little edge.'

Smiling her widow's smile, she turned her cloudy gaze upon the bardess.

'I heard that part, too,' the Fourth informed her, unbothered by her blasé attitude, which was something of a commonality in Crorefell. 'I also thought it wise to introduce myself, before your man with the crossbow put a bolt twixt my eyes.'

Chuckling darkly, Nenne turned to face him.

'Wise, certainly,' she nodded, head tilted to the side, beads rattling. 'However, I must add that it is most unwise to test my patience. Those who come before me do so either with open purses... or open minds.' She paused. Blinked. 'That you sought to avoid me in the first place suggests the information you're looking for will be costly indeed.' The Fourth glanced at Anira.

Fuck!
 
When the Fourth appeared at Nenne’s shoulder, close enough to steal a breath, one of Anira’s brows lifted. Appreciatively. Not alarmed, exactly, but impressed. Appraising him the way one might a particularly sharp instrument left too on a table. Interesting. Dangerous. Someone else’s problem, mostly. She knew old Nenne to enjoyed it too.

“Yes, yes, I admit it freely,” she said brightly. “Men with an edge... or with a scandalous little earring... or sort who smell like ginger and lemons.” The minstrel smiled, wide and unapologetic. “We can debate the finer points of my taste in men until the octopus learns to sing.. but you’re diverting the melody, Nenne. Very clever." The bard clicked her tongue. Nenne's blind gaze stayed fixed on Anira, sharp as a hook sunk deep. The octopus sank, bleeding into the shade of the bottom of the pond, it had learned the taste of bad mood a long time ago.

“As for open purses,” Anira went on, breezy as birdsong, “I would love to open mine. Truly. It aches for the exercise. But alas.." She tapped her collarbone with her fingers. “The fact remains, Nenne. I spared you an ugly choice. You owe me.” A small shrug. Her eyes slipped over to The Fourth. “Family makes things messy. Blood stains worse than wine, I hear.”

Blue eyes turning back to Nenne. The old woman shifted on her cushioned seat, cane tapping once against the tiles. Nenne’s fingers tightened slowly around the head of her cane, knuckles standing out like old knots in driftwood. "So let’s not pretend that dinner was charity. It was work. You got what you needed without dirtying your hands or breaking your own web.”

A pause. Then, sweet as sugar on the tongue. “And this,” the minstrel went on, “is why you owe me.”

“You’re right about the dinner.” Nenne said at last, voice settling into something flatter, older. Business.

"We need to know the whereabouts of Lady Selani Mandamor..." Anira hummed softly.

“The lady's name has been whispered too often of late.” A thin smile crept across Nenne's mouth. The old Inkspider leaned back, her blind eyes tilted toward the shifting water of the shallow garden pond. The chimp in the blue vest perched on the edge, cleaning its nails, utterly unconcerned.

"Seek out Vorek the Penniless. There is a place, they call it the Cradle, it used to be a salt cellar. Lady Selani went to meet him weeks ago."

“So how do we find The Cra-”

“Southern Portside, past the gallowhouse, and into the old cistern tunnels. There is a door painted in black tar there. They host fights there. Blood on sand." Nenne's lips twisted. “Do not ask me for more, bard."

Anira’s breath slipped out slow.
 
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"The lady's name has been whispered too often of late," said the Inkspider. The Fourth smiled inwardly. Explains the heightened security, he thought, glancing over his shoulder to where two men in plain garb waited in the shadows, armed, and no less dangerous for the small distance between them and their master. Nenne. Matron 'spider.

She certainly didn't appreciate being outmanuevered, but then she did owe Anira a debt. The Fourth was almost curious as to how the bard had managed that, but some things were better off left alone, or until a later date.

Lowering his profile slightly -the shooter on the roof was still aiming at him- the mercenary bade farewell without a word. They had never been his strength, though he could level a threat with the best of them. 'Well done,' he whispered in Anira's ear as he they exited through the same door they'd walked in. 'For a moment there, dear Nenne looked like she was going to burst a blood vessel.'

Or ours, he mused darkly, floorboards creaking as he led Anira back to the common room, which had grown livelier in their absence. 'Hmm. Think they're here on your behalf, or mine?' Nodded the mercenary, picking out a group of three sitting amidst the drone and dance. Mercenaries or street toughs - usually equated to the same thing in the big cities.

'Haven't touched their drinks since they sat down, from the looks of it. Ain't smoking or dicing.' Odd. 'Perhaps we'll see them at the fighting pits, get a chance to... catch up.'
 
The garden’s hush gave way to the inn’s noise again. Music, laughter, a shout that might turn into a knife-fight if encouraged. A whisper in her ear and she glanced sideways, a smile curling om her lips. “Another minute and Nenne would've ordered the octopus to strangle someone...” Anira murmured back, light as a lark trilling.

She slowed her step as they reached the common room, letting the sweat warmed air roll over her. Anira breathed it in like perfume. Smoke, spice, drinks, bad decisions. This was a stage she understood. Her gaze followed his nod easily enough. Three men. Still cups. Still hands. Not bored. Waiting. Anira hummed, thoughtful. “Mmm. Definitely your crowd." A beat. “If they were here for me, at least one of them would pretend not to stare.”

Her attention drifted away again, as if the danger were merely another instrument slightly out of tune. Her mind had already wandered to The Cradle. Where the wealthy placed bets and the desperate placed bones. “So,” she said, turning fully to him now.

“Do we sit down, order something strong, and think? Really think how one avoids being volunteered for the entertainment at The Cradle? Or do we improvise?” she went on. “Walk straight into the pit?" Her eyes flicked once more toward the mercenaries, then back to him.

“Your call, Johannes. Strategy… or improvisation?”
 
Everyone in here's pretending not to stare, thought the Fourth, taking the measure of their new friends, and those around them. 'As much as I'd enjoy sharing a drink with you,' he said, deadpan, 'I think maintaining momentum would serve us better. Improvise, adapt, keep 'em guessing until we've answers to our questions.'

Anira was right, the three were his crowd. Street toughs. Probably frequented The Cradle in their spare time; the scars and tattoos told a story, too.

'Whoever convinced Mistress Selani to leave of her own volition likely sent them,' the mercenary reasoned, boots thudding against floorboards as he led Anira to the exit. 'That, or we've another party in play. One interested in finding her before we do.' Another question that could answer itself. There focus had to be on locating Selani, not figuring out the who and the why, though the latter might lead to the former.

'I say we go,' he paused at the threshold, turned, like a soldier parading before his general. 'Unless you've ideas of your own? If so, I'd like to hear them.' Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the toughs readying themselves to stand, hands splayed on the tabletop, arses raised from rickety seats. The Fourth smiled. Amateurs.

'Talk on the wing?' He asked, offering the bardess his arm.
 
“I am exceptionally good at improvising." and with those words, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as though it had always belonged there. Her fingers tightened around his bicep. She gave the muscle a thoughtful squeeze, testing the craftsmanship. “Mm,” Anira murmured. “Very reassuring.”

They stepped into the warm city, and it unfurled around them like a banner caught in a monsoon wind. It was that hour between afternoon and evening when the light turned honey-thick and very flattering. Sandstone walls glowed warm gold, covered with looping vines and carved gods, who had watched centuries of questionable decisions on these streets. Balconies leaned overhead, dripping with dyed fabrics in deep yellow, indigo, and peacock green. The air tasted cardamom, sea salt and frying sweets. Merchants called their final bargains of the day. Children darted past with sticky fingers. A group sailors with kohl-smudged eyes laughed too loudly at an old fisherman's story.

Her thumb traced an idle path along Brother Fourth's sleeve. Entirely idle. Entirely intentional. “I do not believe Selani was taken,” she added after a moment, voice easing into something thoughtful. “I saw her wardrobe. The wedding dress.” A breath. “It was exquisite." Silk layered like sunrise mist. Gold thread so fine it caught the light even in shadow. Pearls stitched along the sleeves in constellations. It was not the sort of gown one abandons lightly.

And before the man would question how the bardess came to that conclusion just by looking at a dress in a closet, she quickly added. “No one flees that by accident. Not unless that story ends badly.” Drums pulsed somewhere ahead. A reed flute chased the rhythm. Bangles chimed as women swept past in mirrored veils.

The streets narrowed. Stone grew damp beneath their boots. The scent shifted from spice and sea to cool mineral and old water. They passed the gallows-house. Its beams loomed black and skeletal against the light of the golden hour, ropes swaying lazily.

“And I think the better question is not who helped her… but why a woman with beauty, wealth and a wedding grand, seem to prefer a war...”
 
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Hers was a subtle sort of manipulation. Harmless until it wasn't. 'Exquisitely expensive,' the mercenary agreed, chuckling darkly. The Mahapravin had spared no expense preparing for his sister's wedding. No doubt he had a lot riding on the outcome. The best alliances always came with a cost; Crorefell's mercenary bands could have given him a run for his money.

But they weren't in the City of Fools. And they weren't alone either.

'Met her before, have you?' The Fourth glanced sidelong at his companion. 'I know her hand likely comes with a fat dowry. As to her beauty, well, I imagine you would know more about that,' he smiled, feigning interest in the blonde whilst eyeing the wall beyond, sunkissed strands obstructing his view of the three shadows thrown across it, wavering with every step they took. Damned fools were breaking every rule in the book, getting so close he could discern their footsteps from those of passersby.

The Sun went away as they turned into an alley leading down to the docks. Uncouth laughter filtered up to them from below. Torchlight kept the damp steps from turning treachorous on them. The Fourth paused at the top. 'A moment,' he whispered, freeing his arm.

A long knife materialised in the seat of his palm. A matching dagger appeared in his left hand, knuckle-duster grip clutched tight, ready to rock some skulls. The blade waved the bard into cover, features hardening as he slipped on his killer's mask.

'Hurry up!' A voice followed them down the alley. 'Boss told us not to lose sight of 'em!'

'Do you want them to hear us?!' A second voice asked, just as loudly.

'Would you two please shut the fuck up?' The third growled, none too pleased. 'Sitha's salty crack, it's like workin' with a pair of amat-' The Fourth stepped into the thug's path as he rounded the corner. 'What-'

-the fuck!' The men behind him froze as one, fear, surprise, and anger turning their eyes to saucers. The loudmouth caught on quickest. 'Shit, it's him!' Stepping over the first, the Fourth brought his dagger up under his closest assailant's chin, shattering the man's jaw in one strike. The loudmouth fumbled with the hunting sword stuffed through his belt as his companion fell.

'Shit! Fuck! You fuckin'...'

A pommel struck him upside the temple, driving him into the wall of the alley. Something sharp nicked the back of his hand, and the thug yelped, dropping his sword.

A shadow fell across his field of view, and the thug sank backwards against the wall. 'Mercy!' He cried. 'Please, Saer, mercy! We was only told to follow you! We weren't gonna... we wasn't...'

'Alright, alright. Calm down before you piss yourself,' the Fourth smiled, sheathing his blades, only to seize the thug by his collar. The mercenary's eyes shone brightly.

'Let's chat.'
 
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