It's been several days since Antonio stole his sister away, and apart
from a single message Antonio sent via raven, and the clues Niara left
that she would return, Martin has heard nothing else from them. 
 
Calling himself Marchant, a nondescript sword-for-hire, he's been
spending some time down in the harbor district making fruitless
enquiries about a mystery letter delivered to Niara, and is taking a
drink down at Bloody Morgan's when an extraordinary (for the locale) and
very familiar figure wanders in, fidgety and restless: Cousin Hal, or
Harold-from-a-Begman-duchy, as Niara likes to call him.

Marchant watches him exchange wary greetings with another patron,
apparently named Regan, and then their gazes meet. If Hal is surprised,
he doesn't show it.

Marchant, seated at a table in the back of the room, seems to be
grinning at something as he sips.

Hal heads over to the bar instead, where he calls out to Bill and orders
and gets a Kashfan Red from the bar. Then he starts chatting up a rather
loose woman sitting nearby, but only halfheartedly.

He tilts his head, and peers at Marchant with his right eye.

Marchant quirks a grin at Hal.

Hal says "Haven't you got anything better to do?"

The woman next to Hal misunderstands and calls him a few names and
leaves.

Marchant indicates the empty seat at his table with an amused nod.
Hal stands and leaves the bar and joins Marchant at his, where they talk
talk quietly for a time.

Marchant grins as his gaze flickers over to the woman Hal'd failed to
chat up. "Not quite your type, is she."

Hal slumps and grins back, "Her rouge was quite artistic though."

Marchant says "For an autistic goat, perhaps."

Hal chuckles. "No.. my taste doesn't run.. with goats."

Marchant leans back in his chair, dark gaze falling on Hal. "If you say
so," he smiles. "Well, cousin, what brings you to this part of our
beloved city?"

Hal's eyebrows squint a second, and then he says, "Rumor has it some of
my trade is coming through here.. altered.." "I thought I'd pop by and
see if a friend was here to tell me more." "How about yourself?"

Marchant shrugs a shoulder lazily, "checking up on a couple of things."
He sips, says, "haven't seen you around these parts before."

Hal says "Not my usual. I should've dressed down like you. Any luck?"

Pots and pans clatter in the kitchen behind the small window.

Marchant smiles some, at that. "You're going to be remembered, and me
along with you. Oh, well." Then he shakes his head once, slightly, in
answer to Hal's question. "Not much. You?"

Hal glances at the bar. "Yeah." "There is a little trouble." "I'll have
to follow it up more quietly though." he reaches into a pocket, "Smoke?"

Marchant gestures no, thanks. Idly glancing round the bar, he suggests
quietly, "maybe we can help each other out a little."

Hal lights himself a cigar-like stick. "Sure. What do you have in mind?"

Marchant raises his mug to his mouth, says, "what's happening with
your... trade?"

Hal's cigar's fumes have a soothing, sleepy scent. "Well. Someone's been
swapping out our normal goods with an inferior variety. And then
altering ours into their own nefangled and more dangerous variety." "I
don't like legitimate experimentation with our stuff but it gets a bit
much at this stage."

Hal says "I've narrowed it down to some sailors who frequent this
place."

Marchant doesn't comment, swirling a mouthful of ale around. Swallowing,
he says, "seen a few sailors here. What're you looking for?"

Hal says "The whore I was talking to. She's had him. But he drugged her.
So've some other sailors. So it's five people. Regan could be one of
them. M'looking for guilty starts. Seen none. Figure I'll have to send
in some men to try to buy on the sly."

Hal says "Might as well get rid of them all to save time I was thinking,
but that's too sloppy. I'd like to make an example."

Marchant nods, "nice and neat. Need a hand? I'm bored out of my mind
hanging around this dump."

Hal says "Well. You make it sound like I'm doing you a favor. Maybe I
should charge you.."

Marchant chuckles, "what're you paying? I mght take you up on that."

Hal says "Hell. I pay cigars. I need news. Starved. Tell you what. I'll
describe the guys. You take these cigars and smoke 'em here and let on
you want to buy."

Hal says "If something happens tonight then it may be before news gets
out I was here."

Hal says "We may just get lucky."

Marchant hehs, points out, "your whore's still around."

Hal doesn't look. "Good." he grins. He shoves some cigars under the
table.

Marchant drops a hand casually under the table, taking the cigars as he
takes a gulp of his drink.

Hal glances aside, casually. "Know how to smoke opium?"

Hal blows a little cloud of smoke over the table with his next puff. A
nice haze.

Marchant raises an eyebrow at Hal. After a pause, he looks away with a
grin, "I thought they smelled odd."

Hal says "They can actually have a kick on us the first time, you know.
S'nice and easy. No offence. Our brand is the best after all. Now as to
these sailors.."

Marchant considers, confesses, "got to tell you, it's been a while."

A couple of hooded men whisper together, studying the newly arrived.

At your table, Hal nods as he continues, "The whore just indicated the
third hooded man is one of them." "I don't know which one named though."
"Their names are Regan, Torus, Jamie, and I don't know. A big, burly,
brown haired fellow with curly hair. And a shortie with blonde hair and
blue eyes." "The first three, well you saw Regan. Torus is middle aged,
middle height, sailor's tattoos, one of a mermaid."

Hal says "I don't know what Jamie looks like."

Hal says "I can give you a better description of Regan and Torus, but
that's not much help."

Hal says "Questions about anything? Shoot."

Marchant looks over towards the door, taking in the hooded men as he
glances past that way. "Got a light?" he says to Hal.

Hal flips you a matchbook.

Hal says "It's a shame I can't figure out a way to make lighters work
here."

One of the hooded man heads for the whore and makes a lewd comment.

Marchant catches the matchbook, rips out a match, strikes it, and brings
the flame up to the end of the cigar.

The whore haggles.

Hal says "I think that's Torus."

Hal puffs more smoke in front of his face.

Marchant hmphs, shaking out the lighted match, and exhaling.

Hal sighs. "I wish they weren't spiking my stuff." "The spiked stuff
sometimes gives people blood clots in the brain." "Variable pleasure
amount."

Hal says "I'd better duck out. If I hear fighting I'll come back. Looks
like they're all bidding on the whore."

Marchant closes his eyes momentarily, blowing a little smoke. "Shame,
that," he concedes. "This stuff isn't bad."

Hal stands and leaves the right rear table. He leaves some money on the
table and heads for the door with a good swift stride, but not too
swift.

Marchant waves cheerily to Hal as he leaves.

Regan calls out cheerily, "'Night, Duke Harold."

One of the hooded men jumps an inch, and looks over his shoulder.

Marchant leans back in his chair, eyes half-closed, apparently savoring
a quiet smoke.

Hal calls out, "'night Regan." sourly, and exits.

The hooded men confer quietly, the whore ignored unhappily.

Marchant's eyes widen a little, and he leans forward in his seat,
watching Hal leave. Turning to the one called Regan, he grins, "Hey,
that was never a Duke..?"

Regan perks up and waves a mug, "Shore was." "Right in this old joint."
"Heh." "Duke in Begma."

Regan is a rather ugly, seedy man, with loud clothing and sleepy eyes.

The hooded group does not look happy. It's just a general impression
from their murmuring.

Marchant chuckles as he flicks the ash from his cigar onto the floor.
"Yeah, well that explains it, then."

The whore complains, "You're all a bunch of cold sea-spit tonight." then
she sniffs.

One of the hooded men asks cheerily, "Explains what?" but he doesn't
smile more than a little.

Marchant takes a puff, not quite looking over at the hooded man. "They
got funny ways," he drawls, "over in Begma."

From the kitchens comes the brief roar of flames, and a little smoke
drifts out of the small window.

One of the men says audibly to another, "Let's can it tonight. This
stinks." Then the third one, blonde and blue eyed, looks at Marchant,
"We're funny. In slick ways." showing some steel on his belt.

Marchant hehs, fingering the cigar lightly, dark eyes glittering at the
hooded men. "Hey," he smiles brightly. "I just came here looking to do a
little business."

Regan finishes off his drink and appears to have drunk himself stupid.

Bill wipes the bar. The hooded group comes to your table.

A bet of some type begins at a corner table, between some bar veterans.
The odds look at about three to one or higher.

Marchant looks up at the hooded men approaching. He quirks a brow as he
smiles. "Something the matter with that?"

The short one with blue eyes sits down across from you. "We're looking
to do business ourselves." and his two buddies flank him. "What kind are
you thinking of?"

The whore starts making her way to the door, unsteadily.

Marchant regards the cigar in his hand. "Let's call it entertainment,"
he suggests with a smile. "Or self-indulgence."

Regan says "Hey." "Here. Have one of ours." "That brand's crap." and one
of the hooded men produces a darker looking version of the same."

Marchant ohs? with evident interest.

"Try it. You'll like it." insists the middle man."

"Yeah?" Marchant says, considering the one being offered. "What's in
it?"

"Something new. The alchemists haven't even named it yet." "When the old
stuff doesn't work anymore. This stuff does it."

The whore makes the door and lingers there.

Marchant says "yeah?" again, sitting back, looking very interested. He
seems to consider, eyes on the merchandise. "How much?"

The drunk in the corner wakes up, mutters a slurred oath to the room in
general, and falls back asleep.

"First try's free." all three look insistant. "Just for you." one of the
three lights the end.

"Really?" Marchant says with a soft chuckle, "good business sense
there." He stubs out his 'cigar' on the table, reaches out for the one
being offered to him.

All three hooded men smile.

Marchant raises the 'cigar', sniffs, smiles. "Interesting," he comments.
"Pity I'm into something with a little bit more kick."

The hooded men frown in unison.

Without further warning, Marchant kicks out the table, trapping Blue
Eyes in his chair, and rolls to the right, drawing his sabre as he
stands.

Blue eyes wuffs, and that's all for the nonce. Torus draws a wicked
knife and starts sidling around the table. The other one, nearer, takes
out two knives, both looking throwable, and backs away from you quickly.

The betting in the corner stops and cheers and boos start. Bill ducks
under the bar.

Marchant lunges forward, towards the one with the throwing knives, sabre
stocatta, under the other man's knife, at his torso.

The man with the single, large knife, hurries the rest of the way around
the table and tries for your side. Blue eyes pushes his chair back and
reaches for a knife. Two knives takes it in the gut, his throwing knives
each going the wrong way.

The whore screams and makes tracks.

Marchant steps through, grabbing Two Knives by the shoulder and dragging
him down to shield his exposed side, as he withdraws his blade and turns
to face his next opponent.

Pots and pans clatter in the kitchen behind the small window.

Two hooded men on either side of the table eye you, each holding large
knives. Blue eyes smiles crookedly, "Hey now mister." and the other one
starts trying circle around in back of you.

Hal comes in off the street.

From outside the doorway, something like a brief cry is abruptly cut
off.

Gavin pulls the door open, glancing warily inside before entering.

He's a large man; perhaps six and a half feet tall, and well muscled, at
a bit over 220lbs. His steel blue eyes are cold, though coupled with his
strong featured face, and thin beard, make him a rather handsome fellow,
by any standard. 

He wears a red and black doublet, and breeches of a matching black. His
breeches tuck into knee-length, cuffed boots. A black cloak hangs at his
shoulders, clasped with a plain silver pin. A wide leather belt hangs at
his waist, a serviceable sabre, with a plain basket hilt hanging from
it.

A couple of hooded men whisper together, studying the newly arrived.

Marchant steps forward towards the one who was coming round the table,
slashing high.

If Marchant notices the new arrivals, he doesn't acknowledge their
presence.

The hooded man who must defend himself does so by backing up--into the
wall, gaining a bloody streek along one cheek.

Blue eyes moves in quickly, lunging with his knife at Marchant.

Hal frowns and moves forwards and then just stands there watching, sword
ready in his hand, opening his mouth and saying, harshly, "Enough."

Marchant steps back, parrying Blue Eyes in seconde.

Gavin slips a hand beneath his doublet, quickly producing a stiletto. He
cocks an arm, and hurls it for Blue Eyes Marchant in an offhand gesture,
as if not overly surprised.

Blue eyes sprouts a stiletto, and looks unhappy as he keels over.

The man against the wall with a bloody face shouts, "I give up!"

Hal puts his sword away.

Some old bar veterans start exchanging money, good naturedly cursing
about the bets.

Marchant takes a step over to the man with the bloodied face, saying
nothing, and grabs him by the collar, hauling him round to face Hal and
Gavin.

Hal slowly smiles. "Alright."

The bloodied man shakes in his boots, eyeing the two men before him, and
well aware of the one behind. He looks down.

Gavin chuckles. He peers from Hal, to Marchant, to the bloodied fellow,
"Any specific reason for this, or's it just fun?"

Marchant shoves the bloodied man forwards, towards Hal and friend, as he
eyes the remaining hooded men to the side.

Nobody who was not part of the fight shows any sign of recognition or
meets Marchant's gaze.

Marchant allows himself a vague grin at that, and wipes his blade clean
on the shirt of Blue Eyes.

Hal grabs the man's arms with his hands and says, "Gotcha." "This man's
part of a smuggling ring, taking goods out of my country." "I'll bring
him back there unless Marchant wants him.."

Hal nods towards Marchant.

Marchant shrugs, "got nowhere to keep pets. He's yours if you want 'im."

Gavin snorts. "Smuggler? There's plenty of room in the dungeons."

Marchant heads round to the other side of the table, straightening a
chair, and bends to pick something up off the floor.

Hal looks at Gavin, and says, "Ye.." "But my people shouldn't have to
travel here just to question him, and I'll be damned if I waste more
time myself on this." he then smiles, "If you could deposit him there
temporarily however?" he offers the man.

Blue eyes makes some final noises.

Gavin chuckles, and nods. "Sure. I'll drop him off with the guardsmen,
and have him put in the dungeons."

A man lacking any sort of weapon, but struck through by a gut-thrust
looks already dead.

Hal says "Good man."

Marchant stands, pocketing something, and half-turns to consider Blue
Eyes. "Hey," he calls out towards Gavin over his shoulder. "Want your
knife back?"

Hal squeezes a little and pushes the man over to Gavin, looking at his
hands afterwards and making a face.

Gavin nods. "That'd be nice, they do cost, I suppose." He extends a hand
to Marchant, pausing to catch the fellow by the collar with his opposite
hand.

Marchant yanks the stiletto from Blue Eyes' back, tosses it handle first
to Gavin.

Bill growls something as he comes out from under the bar.

Regan snores at his table.

Gavin plucks the knife from the air, and proceeds to wipe it clean on
the bloodied fellow's shirt, then pockets it. He leads the man toward
the door, half-dragging him. "I think I'll try the Crown and Anchor for
a drink, quieter." He shrugs, and presses the door open. He goes out
onto the street.

Marchant snorts in amusement as he empties a few coins from a pocket
onto the table, and heads towards the door.

Hal says "I should paint this place. It's almost.. classically bloody.
But then this is Amber."

"Huh," Marchant grins. "Amber or not, I've just about had my fill of
this rathole."

Bill gets out a mop, saying, "The least you two could do is toss out the
trash." He sighs, "Mi'lords."

Hal shakes his head and heads out, tossing more coins on a table. "Pay
for it." he says.

Martin winces, and mutters to Hal, "dunno know why I even bother
sometimes."

Hal says "Maybe a false beard."

Outside Bloody Morgan's, the cobbled side-street is little more than a
narrow, rubbish-strewn alleyway so typical of the area.

Figures in a shadowy doorway draw back, watchful of those who enter the
street.

Martin scratches his cheek, "got what you wanted?"

Hal says "I think so. I guess I owe you one."

Martin shrugs, reaching into a pocket, pulling out the 'cigar' Blue Eyes
had offered. "Want a sample of their work?"

Hal looks at it. Sniffs.

Hal says "It's the stuff. I can tell." "No thanks."

Martin nods, returning it to his pocket. "Looks like we're done here,
then."

Hal says "Got our exercise. Do you have a Dukedom or such with problems
like this somewhere?"

A drunk staggers out of an alley, mumbling to himself, stinking of
alcohol and vomit.

Hal starts edging along, his keen nose obviously offended.

Martin shakes his head with a laugh, walking along with Hal. "Not a one.
Had a nice little villa once upon a time, but that's it. Your duchy
worth the time you spend on it?"

Hal says "Hmm. I don't quite think so. That's why I let the retainers
take care of everything possible. Still--I've nothing in Amber you know.
It's nice to have a title. And then there's the free cigars always
available. I suppose I feel one way one day one way the other."

Martin chuckles, "ah, well. Courtesy titles are the best and the worst
I've got to put up with." "You headed back to the castle now?"

Hal looks up at the sky, and frowns. "Hell." "No." "I have a date." he
looks at his clothing. "I've got to run."

Martin eyes Hal dubiously, and grins. "Sure, see you later."
                                                
Hal shrugs and says, "I can't imagine why every noble woman in creation
hasn't hit on you yet. How do you do it?" then he starts jogging.

Martin laughs, "just lucky, I guess."

---------------
December 98