3rd Trial, Vhalar, Arc 705
Outer Perimeter
23rd break
Outer Perimeter
23rd break
It wasn't hard for him not to be seen. Being not even five-and-a-half-feet tall and a hundred-sixty pounds only when wearing his sword would do that to a man. He sat at a corner table and supped the cups of ale that were brought to him, spreading them out over the breaks so he was not sozzled by the end of the way. Just a small, lonely man drinking his booze and reading a slim book.
"Long while since I've seen one of those in here."
Kasoria snapped a glance up at the woman bringing him a fresh mug. Smooth skin and brown curls. Thick in the hips but a bosom that made you forget about it. Not that he had a problem with a curvy woman, of course. They were generally more fun, in his experience. A crooked smile worked its way across his face and he shrugged.
"Might not see it again, if I don't come back."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Gotta have a reason, don't I? Maybe I'm looking at one right now..."
He hazarded a wink and was rewarded with a titter. And a blush. Enough to tell him that she was probably not a whore. His smile grew, and grew bolder, but even as he listened to her reply he was already looking beyond her. His employer was still at his table, discussing business with the fifth or sixth visitor of the evening. Him and his brother, bent over the table strewn with gnawed rib bones and empty cups, furtively negotiating with some cape-wearing fop. Citadel, by the looks of him. Not shit on his shoes.
A pair of hulking minders stood on either side of the booth, arms crossed, heads and eyes constantly scanning the "gentle folk" patronizing the Fancy Franny that evening. The usual Etzosi crowd. Whores and laborers, clerks and thieves, beggars and drunks and sellswords and merchants and killers and carpenters and renegades and all that made a city so prosperous. Now and then a quarrel would break out but this was a place for food and drink and merriment.
And business, Kasoria reminded himself, sipping his brew as the wench wandered away to the next thirsty customer. Not just the obvious kind, either.
There were the drinks being bought and the card games being played. The food being served and, yes, in this place it was fairly easy to see the circling street-walkers picking out their potential clients and approach them. Then there was the layer under that. The furtive deals in books and corners. The hands slipped under tables, exchanging coins and packages of all kinds. Things that got dropped off or picked up. Crassus and Fessus were within that layer, this pub the center of their little fiefdom on the North Side, where all faces were known and protection could be relied on.
Such as the two walking mountains flanking them tonight. But there was another layer. Deeper and secretive. Kasoria was nestled firmly there. He was working, but he was not working. He didn't stand or cross his arms or glare at those that ventured too close to that sacred table. He sat in a quiet booth, exuding a quiet air, reading and drinking and-
Watching. Always watching. Eyes flicking up from his pages every few trills to take in the room. Because others may have been doing their own quiet business that night. Watching for gaps in the brothers' armor. Chances to slide a blade through it, bodyguards or not. So Crassus, being the savvy sort of operator that he was, decided a little secret security was necessary. A pair of hands and eyes and a mind that knew how to use them, only not so obviously.
Kasoria shifted and the weight of his purse pushed against his side. He'd been paid well, and that meant he had a job to do. For over a decade this had been his trade: purses of coin in exchange for his skills, most often in the shadows, and every year he'd noticed the purses getting heavier. His reputation was growing, mainly because after twelve arcs, he was still alive to have one. Crassus had approached him and made an offer. Kasoria was a freelancer, not tied to any of the gangland warlords that made the underworld a patchwork of loyalties and feuds and tentative truces.
Never peace. Never peace among those too greedy and ruthless to ever accept the word fully. Kasoria was happy to accept that bleak reality, for it enriched his own.
What else were you going to do with what you learned?
His father would have some suggestions. "Anything but this" would be chief among them, he was sure. But Kasoria didn't want to go another ten rounds of that argument, watching the old man grow angrier and more disappointed and-
Focus. You're on the job.
He returned to the faces. A great clamor of them, mired at the same table for breaks, or just flitting through. He tried his best to at least snap every one into his brain at least once. Tried to read them as he pretended to read his book. More than that, tried to notice if they were paying the brothers quite a bit of attention... or were doing much the same as him.
Trying not to be noticed. Being meek mice instead of prowling jackals. Waiting for their moment.
Commotion from Crassus and Fessus, only not the kind Kasoria was watching for. The brothers sent away their last visitor for the evening and rose to their feet, shrugging on their coats, and leaving a handful of silver and coppers for the wenches and the house proper. Kasoria suppressed the urge to smirk as he closed his book. Oh, they could afford to be generous: they got a cut of everything sold in the place, along with a payment from Jenkins every season to prevent "unforeseen accidents".
Kasoria wondered how they sold it with those words. It didn't seem plausible.
They started to move to the door and their minders moved into position, front and back. One clearing the way, the other watching the back and-
Kasoria didn't know how else to put it: the man just looked... intent. Maybe he recognized that same grim, focused look on his face, because his own features had been carved into similar many times before. The way it seemed immobile, like stone, save for the eyes that seemed to burn with purpose. First one man, then another, rising at the same time.
Two at once. From the bar and from a table, the latter moving away without even scooping up his money from the card game-
Kasoria was already up and moving towards them by the time he'd worked out what was about to happen. The brothers were unawares, talking between their lumbering goons, gesturing, laughing, and behind the hulk on the back Kasoria could see something gleam through the ranks of revelers infesting the Fancy.
He opened his mouth to yell a warning, and the door opened-
-to a man holding a crossbow, and not alone-
-and Kasoria leaped and pulled his gladius free from its sheath just as the bowman fired the bolt smack straight into the lead minder's heart.
"Long while since I've seen one of those in here."
Kasoria snapped a glance up at the woman bringing him a fresh mug. Smooth skin and brown curls. Thick in the hips but a bosom that made you forget about it. Not that he had a problem with a curvy woman, of course. They were generally more fun, in his experience. A crooked smile worked its way across his face and he shrugged.
"Might not see it again, if I don't come back."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Gotta have a reason, don't I? Maybe I'm looking at one right now..."
He hazarded a wink and was rewarded with a titter. And a blush. Enough to tell him that she was probably not a whore. His smile grew, and grew bolder, but even as he listened to her reply he was already looking beyond her. His employer was still at his table, discussing business with the fifth or sixth visitor of the evening. Him and his brother, bent over the table strewn with gnawed rib bones and empty cups, furtively negotiating with some cape-wearing fop. Citadel, by the looks of him. Not shit on his shoes.
A pair of hulking minders stood on either side of the booth, arms crossed, heads and eyes constantly scanning the "gentle folk" patronizing the Fancy Franny that evening. The usual Etzosi crowd. Whores and laborers, clerks and thieves, beggars and drunks and sellswords and merchants and killers and carpenters and renegades and all that made a city so prosperous. Now and then a quarrel would break out but this was a place for food and drink and merriment.
And business, Kasoria reminded himself, sipping his brew as the wench wandered away to the next thirsty customer. Not just the obvious kind, either.
There were the drinks being bought and the card games being played. The food being served and, yes, in this place it was fairly easy to see the circling street-walkers picking out their potential clients and approach them. Then there was the layer under that. The furtive deals in books and corners. The hands slipped under tables, exchanging coins and packages of all kinds. Things that got dropped off or picked up. Crassus and Fessus were within that layer, this pub the center of their little fiefdom on the North Side, where all faces were known and protection could be relied on.
Such as the two walking mountains flanking them tonight. But there was another layer. Deeper and secretive. Kasoria was nestled firmly there. He was working, but he was not working. He didn't stand or cross his arms or glare at those that ventured too close to that sacred table. He sat in a quiet booth, exuding a quiet air, reading and drinking and-
Watching. Always watching. Eyes flicking up from his pages every few trills to take in the room. Because others may have been doing their own quiet business that night. Watching for gaps in the brothers' armor. Chances to slide a blade through it, bodyguards or not. So Crassus, being the savvy sort of operator that he was, decided a little secret security was necessary. A pair of hands and eyes and a mind that knew how to use them, only not so obviously.
Kasoria shifted and the weight of his purse pushed against his side. He'd been paid well, and that meant he had a job to do. For over a decade this had been his trade: purses of coin in exchange for his skills, most often in the shadows, and every year he'd noticed the purses getting heavier. His reputation was growing, mainly because after twelve arcs, he was still alive to have one. Crassus had approached him and made an offer. Kasoria was a freelancer, not tied to any of the gangland warlords that made the underworld a patchwork of loyalties and feuds and tentative truces.
Never peace. Never peace among those too greedy and ruthless to ever accept the word fully. Kasoria was happy to accept that bleak reality, for it enriched his own.
What else were you going to do with what you learned?
His father would have some suggestions. "Anything but this" would be chief among them, he was sure. But Kasoria didn't want to go another ten rounds of that argument, watching the old man grow angrier and more disappointed and-
Focus. You're on the job.
He returned to the faces. A great clamor of them, mired at the same table for breaks, or just flitting through. He tried his best to at least snap every one into his brain at least once. Tried to read them as he pretended to read his book. More than that, tried to notice if they were paying the brothers quite a bit of attention... or were doing much the same as him.
Trying not to be noticed. Being meek mice instead of prowling jackals. Waiting for their moment.
Commotion from Crassus and Fessus, only not the kind Kasoria was watching for. The brothers sent away their last visitor for the evening and rose to their feet, shrugging on their coats, and leaving a handful of silver and coppers for the wenches and the house proper. Kasoria suppressed the urge to smirk as he closed his book. Oh, they could afford to be generous: they got a cut of everything sold in the place, along with a payment from Jenkins every season to prevent "unforeseen accidents".
Kasoria wondered how they sold it with those words. It didn't seem plausible.
They started to move to the door and their minders moved into position, front and back. One clearing the way, the other watching the back and-
Kasoria didn't know how else to put it: the man just looked... intent. Maybe he recognized that same grim, focused look on his face, because his own features had been carved into similar many times before. The way it seemed immobile, like stone, save for the eyes that seemed to burn with purpose. First one man, then another, rising at the same time.
Two at once. From the bar and from a table, the latter moving away without even scooping up his money from the card game-
Kasoria was already up and moving towards them by the time he'd worked out what was about to happen. The brothers were unawares, talking between their lumbering goons, gesturing, laughing, and behind the hulk on the back Kasoria could see something gleam through the ranks of revelers infesting the Fancy.
He opened his mouth to yell a warning, and the door opened-
-to a man holding a crossbow, and not alone-
-and Kasoria leaped and pulled his gladius free from its sheath just as the bowman fired the bolt smack straight into the lead minder's heart.