The Space Between (Max) (Graded)
Posted: Wed Apr 03, 2019 1:53 am
63rd Trial, Zi'Da, 711AV
"Job got a little messy, didn't it?"
"It's a messy business."
"We pay you to keep it as clean as possible. We paid you for one man, not half the tavern."
"'We'?"
And lo, a seething fucking enmity is born.
Bangun Vorund smiled into his glass as Ilos' face twisted from politely mocking to outright hateful. The ragged little man in the chair before him blinked like he'd just offended a kitten. It was just the three of them, alone in one of many offices the man behind the desk commanded throughout the Oh'Pee. Not all of them were owned by him, but he had access to them whenever he wanted. One of the perks in being the biggest noise in his patch of Etzos... which was pretty much the entirety of the South Side. That trial, it was above a butchers. The next, it might be that neat little basement job under Petro's Vegetables, or the one with the big, bright windows above Tactile Holdings.
So many to choose from, and he had his pick. Vorund went where the money was, and that applied to his more fleshy assets, too.
"Aye," Ilos growled, putting his drink down half-empty. The little man didn't have one. "We. I gave you this job, on behalf of Mister Vorund. So it's very much my neck on the line-"
"Won't be you swingin' fer it, though, boy."
"The fuck do you-"
"Enough, enough, Fates, give my head peace."
One exasperated proclamation was enough to shut them both up and sharpish. They burned the air between them with steady, contemptuous stares. One in a dapper suit expensively cut, eyes dripping with scorn, like he'd just scrubbed the urchin off his shoes. The other man was almost in rags, clothes cheap and repaired many times. He walked with a limp and grunted when he'd taken his seat, as if his bones were raw and unsettled in his skin. His beard flowed like a stain over his chest and his hair was dirty and wild.
Yet even Ilos knew better than to let words become actions with this man. Not with Mister Vorund's pet executioner.
"The fuck happened out there, Kas?"
"Horum heard me comin'," Kasoria said with a shrug and a snort to cover the trace of any lie. "Bad luck. Turned around, had me dead t'rights with a pocket bow. His lads came runnin', they gave me a kickin'... took their time, though. Stupid. Shoulda' just killed me right away. I got loose of 'em, fought back-"
"What about this girl?"
The sounds of meat being quartered below became very loud, all of a sudden. Now Kasoria's gaze had some heat to it, instead of the glacial, unfeeling ice before. The other men blinked in brief surprise, though it was so fast and fleeting Ilos was scarce sure he saw it. But Vorund was sure. He filed that little detail away, wondering what to make of it... and, as always, how to use it.
"Gutter rat I had scoutin' the place fer me."
"Gutter rat? How many of them would be ballsy enough to toss a dagger into a man's back?"
I should never have let that cunt with the bottle get away, Kasoria snarled inside his own head, then immediately shrugged the thought away. No, that had been part of the job, too. Leaving one man, one to tell the tale, not just an ax buried in Horum's skull. But still... it would have meant less questions. Clearly the tale had been told and retold around the grog shops and alleys and dark, illicit places of Etzos in the two trials he'd been licking his wounds. Already Vorund's Hound had a fresh crop of bodies to add to his mythical toll. Part of him was glad for the free boost to his reputation (it always helped when people shat themselves rather than remember to fight back), but-
Fucking girl.
"I know talent when I see it," Kasoria shot back, not a hint of deception in his voice, that time. "She's a wee thing with a baby face an' people don't see her comin'. So she's useful."
"Knows t'keep her mouth shut?"
Finally Kasoria's face registered something more human than indifference or cold annoyance. Disgust peeled back his lips and he turned to Vorund, letting Ilos know exactly how he felt about being questioned by a man apparently no higher or lower than himself.
"He really askin' me that?"
"Looks like, Kas," Vorund said, almost gently, but telling him he'd find no aid in him. He sloshed the brandy in his glass and studied the swirling liquid. "Better answer him."
Kasoria turned back. He spoke slowly. As if to a child. Relishing the tightening of the thin-faced little bastard's lips.
"Yes. She knows to keep her mouths shut. Otherwise I'd a' topped her after I did Horum."
"How sure ar-"
"That's good enough fer me, Ilos." The oldest man in the room finished his drink and smacked his lips. "Kas knows what saying that means t'me. And what it'll mean if he's wrong."
You vouch for someone and they turn, that means you turned, too. So you both go in the same hole. Too bloody right I know what it means.
"If you say to, Mister Vorund."
"I damn well do, lad." The gangster reached into the desk and tossed Kasoria a bag. He caught it with a wince, impact trembling down his wounded arm. But the sound of many a coin jangling inside eased the pain immensely. "Five hundred, as agreed. Come back at the end of the season. Might have somethin' else for you."
Kasoria nodded, pocketed the bag, and left. There was no ceremony to be observed nor niceties. Four arcs he's been Vorund's man and no other, but that didn't make them friends. The gang lord favored him with a half-smile and a quick nod in return. Ilos just snorted softly and sipped his drink, not even bothering to acknowledge the assassin. Kasoria shot his master a look that came with a raised eyebrow of inquiry... and Vorund shrugged minutely in reply, with a roll of his eyes.
Kasoria smiled under his beard. Aye, breaking in the young ones was always a chore. Whether it was the Blackjack or gutter rats or perfumed junior racketeers like Ilos, there was always a curve.
He left the butchers with the stink of pig's blood following him out the door, into air that seemed more ice than vapor. Even the beggars were swaddled like babes, lumps of fabric and blankets and refuse and even boxes surrounding each one. Every citizen he passed seemed more bundled up than the last, where he trusted to his hooded cloak and mounds of hair to protect him. He picked him way down the road and turned into an alley, stick tapping out a slow, steady beat on the cobbles as he did.
He was a dozen paces in when something small, lithe, and quiet detached itself from a patch of shadow, and stood in his way. Wraith and killer stared each other down, whistling wind and muted sounds of the street forgotten. The figure stepped forwards... and jutted her chin his way. Kasoria smirked and patted his chest. The resounding clank of those same coins brought a sparkle to those dark eyes, and a chuckle to his own lips.
"Ye of little fuckin' faith. C'mon," he commanded, stumping past the girl, knowing she'd follow. "Let's get out the cold. Playin' havoc wiv' these stitches..."