15 Ymiden 722
Morning
The nasty old whore at The Sea Wench had given Maxine a lead, but the information was barely a smidge above nothing. Half of the Etzori military and its veterans were strong-jawed men that had brown hair, brown eyes, and scars to match. Plenty of people liked pottery especially when it was unique and colorful. When it came to a man in a brothel bragging about size? Well, Max was sure whatever "balcony" he claimed to own was at least half as big as he claimed it was.
This is fucking useless.
Max folded her arms where she leaned against a building corner in the shade. The light from the rising sun was oppressive and the reminder of a new trial only signaled the beginning of work to be done. While stall owners set up their wares, arts, and trinkets for the coming pedestrian crowd, Max started to accept the headache she felt coming on. She fished into her pockets more than once before hanging her head.
No joint. No vial. No coins.
Max clicked her tongue.
Fuck.
As if hunting the ghost of Edward Hunt wasn't enough, now she had her own problems that would demand tending to. The balance between a charged, self-imposed political mission and her addictions was a tight-rope she'd walked before. Last time she fell off rather spectacularly. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say she'd over-indulged and lost her damned mind; completely losing touch with reality and conjuring conspiracy where it didn't exist. This time, she told herself, would be different though. This time she'd get it right. Didn't she know better now?
Max had been wandering this section of the city for trials looking for a person or a home that perfectly fit the description of the defector she was looking for. It was hopeless, and part of her entertained throwing in the towel and abandoning this lure altogether. There was something about the way Jarl and Benjamin were talking though. There was real worry in whatever it was that this Edward Hunt might do, how whatever he knows could effect Tristane's campaign if secrets came to light. It was just enough to keep her holding on.
The Rusalka wandered through the trinket stalls until she found a new one that sold blue pottery she’d never visited before. Maxine’s tired eyes scanned the surface of the booth, roving over the unique handmade pieces with forced interest. They were finely made and glossy. The color was bold and uncontested by the other vendors nearby.
Enough to be his favorite?
She folded her arms. There was no way to be sure, and she didn’t have a good solution to change that predicament just yet. The artist smiled politely at her. She remembered to return to courtesy a little late, making the exchange an uneasy one for the both of them. Her headache was becoming more pronounced. Max willed herself to remain focused.
"Edward recommended you,” Maxine lied smoothly. "He wasn’t wrong. You’re very good.”
"That’s very kind,” the young artist sheepishly looked at her wares. "I enjoy the work. I’m just happy other people do too.”
"Sure,” Max shrugged, forcing another smile to appear flawlessly in her expression. "I’m sure Edward Hunt buys from you all the time?”
"Oh, I don’t know.”
"Don’t be so humble.” Max tried to coax the woman. "You should be proud to have a regular.”
"One trial maybe.”
Max fought to keep her facade. The corners of her smile twitched. The artist caught the subtle change and looked away at the busy street. Max noticed her reaction and rolled her eyes. Her head was pounding.
"Alright, look,” The Rusalka abandoned her act, recognizing Famula’s blight of suspicion was unshakable in almost every sense. "Has Edward Hunt been by this trial yet or not?”
"Um?” the artist played with her pottery display.
"I meant what I said. This is really nice work I would prefer not to fucking smash it.”
Maxine waited.
“This is getting fucking old. You don't believe me, right? You want me to prove it too?” Max growled. "No problem.”
In one swift, precise motion she swiped a small vase off the surface of the table. The piece shattered like glass upon the street. The artist gaped at the shards.
"Oops.” Max sucked on her teeth and the two women eyed the shards at their feet, one with horror and the other with disappointment. "Another?”
Max didn’t give the woman a chance to consider. Her two fingers waltzed dramatically upon the stall toward the next clay victim. The artist’s eyes widened and she raised her palms.
"Please!” she plead quietly with the Rusalka. "This is all I have. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make this color?”
"And yet it all smashes so easily.”
"I haven’t seen him!”
The artist’s eyes darted over Maxine’s shoulder so briefly she almost missed the gesture. The Rusalka paused. She glanced over her own shoulder in the direction of the involuntary eye movement. The artist pale when she found the destructive stranger focus on the apartment down the street with a particularly nicely decorated balcony.
"He’s out of town,” the artist whispered.
"Until?”
"I don’t know…”
"What took more time to make? The ring holder or the tea set? Both so intricate…”
"I have no idea! He bought an ash tray and mentioned some trip. I haven’t seen him go on his walks in trials.”
"Relax. I’m not a loan shark or nothin’.”
"You don’t seem like a friend.”
"Eh, I don’t know. Too early to tell. I don’t have many friends these trials though.”
Max paused to admire the pottery left on the table with a nod of appreciation. It really was impressive work. If she had a place of her own she might’ve done the right thing, bought something nice and compensated for what she broke. A smirk twitched at her lips.
"Well, if you’re going to spoil my surprise…tell him The Sea Wench says hello.”
The speechless artists watched as Max walked away, laughing quietly to herself. Masquerading her visit as one made by a blighted whore Edward suffered was perhaps just believable enough to work if he got wind someone did come looking for him. She only hoped, if this girl could be believed, that the cover story wouldn’t intimidate him enough to scare him off.
The Rusalka walked down the street to the apartment with the balcony. Standing beneath it she looked up and spied the blue ash tray on a table beside a chair. A couple smashed cigarettes rested in its basin.
I’ll be damned.
Max yawned her way to the front door and gave it a solid pound with her fist. She put her ear to the surface of the entrance and listened intently. She gave it some time and gave the door another knock. This time when she pressed her ear to the wood she toggled her sense of hearing to the forefront, letting the enhanced ability hunt for a single sign the apartment was occupied. In silence she waited, eyes closed and trying to tune out the rest of the street and focus only on her mark.
Not a sound.
The Rusalka backed away from the door with a frown.
Could just kick it in.
She turned and looked at all the people walking by, some wandering through life with no sense of awareness and others glancing thoughtfully at some of the artists they passed. Max blew a raspberry and stepped away from the empty apartment. There were too many eyes. If she made much more of a commotion, someone was surely going to alert the Dorricks that they weren't the only ones sniffing for Edward Hunt.
Bastard might really be out of town...
Max didn't have the time to waste. Mentally freed from this lead, and confident she might've actually found his residence, every fiber in the addict's body willed her to put a book mark in her search for the trial. Familiar pains in league with the crushing migraine coming on were on the horizon. It was a storm she didn't want to weather. Not to-trial. The Rusalka stepped back into the crowd and immediately her thoughts transitioned to a new mark.
Who is selling over on this part of town?
For just a little while, The Dorricks were safe.
Maxine became wholly obsessed with something else.
