Just Business

The Fetters, Shadow District


 * ''Sagging buildings and decrepit, pitiful streets make up the Fetters. Most of the people are either starving or headed that way, and crime in the area is hardly uncommon.


 * ''The main street running through the Fetters turns sharply here, splitting into several smaller alleyways littered with trash and sewage. The constant patter of rodent feet can be heard from the sides of the road and the buildings, and the occasional corpse of a rat or mouse can be seen decaying in the shadows.


 * ''The road continues on its way to the north and west, rarely frequented unless absolutely necessary.

Taran makes his way along the streets of the Fetters, seeming both at home and out of place. Out of place, for the expensive armor and staff that he carries, but at home in many other ways; which to nod acknowedgment to as they pass, which to ignore. "Finding one man in this will not be easy," he notes. "Though...I suppose we can always follow our noses and the sounds of sickness."

Muri walks along next to Taran stiffly, her armor squeaking with each step. She fingers the strap of her pack anxiously. "Dat farmer tol' us a name," she says. "Mayhaps we aks round 'bout 'im? D'ye knowd w'ere we c'n find a tavern?"

Taran makes a face. "This part of Fastheld reinvents itself as it pleases." He nods to the north. "Try that way. We may find a lead. Try not to be afraid. Rest assured I will kill anyone that touches you."

The weather is less than inviting this afternoon as the two make their way up the street, followed by many a suspicious eye that trails along after them from the sunken flesh of a pale and, usually, hungry face. The sounds of the people on the street carry with them a hushed quality, and there is very little in the way of chatter. That that there is is harsh and unforgiving, heavily accented and anything but welcoming. Every so often, the sound of a cough can be heard, though its source usually remains hidden.

Muri blanches and shifts uncomfortably. "Ah 'opes it don' come t'dats, Messer," she says. She glances at the mage as they walk along, chewing her lower lip. "Dat farmer las' night...dere coulda been a different way t'git dat name."

"Perhaps," Taran concedes quietly. "But I do not much like it when such love and devotion is given to someone unworthy. That boy idolizes his father."

Muri smiles and looks to the distance. "Wot one of us is worthy o'de loves we're given?" she murmurs, looking down a side street. "Mayhaps we should try de stables again, aye?"

"It is worth trying," Taran agrees with a nod. "Or the tavern...the farmers will certainly know of this man, if he sells fertilizer."

Muri moves along the street until she finds a likely watering hole. "Let's try 'ere, aye?" she says, pushing the door open.

Like the street outside, the tavern is filled with dingy, suspicious people who speak softly or not at all. Most of the ones in here at this hour apparently have no place better to be, and the heavy smell in the air suggests alcohol that is, perhaps, a little stronger than strictly legal. Not that anyone would ever admit it, of course. The bar tender moves back and forth behind the counter, occasionally exchanging a word with a customer, mostly occupying himself at his business.

Taran nods slightly. "I will be your guard," he says quietly. "Do as you will."

Muri moves deftly around the tables and heads to the bar. She taps the counter and tries to gain the Tender's attention.

It's a long minute before said bartender turns his eye on Muri, looking her over critically, taking in mask and armor and the scarecrow on her heels with an assessing eye before heading in her direction. Slightly funny-looking and obviously foreign or not, money is money and a customer is a customer. "Yah, whuddah want?"

"Mead and inf'rmation," Muri replies brightly. She sets a coin on the counter, twice the value of a simple mug of mead. "Ah fidger'd ye gots de one, 'opin' yer inclined fer de ofver."

Taran simply watches the barman, staff in hand, with the generally implacable expression of someone who really doesn't care whether the barman is helpful, or the barman has to get his fingers broken.

The bartender sets about getting Muri her mead with a quick glance to Taran that assesses and, doubtless, considers the risks involved in this. "Yah. Mead, I gots. Inf'mation? Well. Dat depen's on whatcha wanna ken, don' it?"

Muri takes the mead in hand and gestures with the cup. "We're lookin' fer a man named Septus Black," she says, her voice even, but friendly. "Ah've gotta farm down south needin' 'elps. 'eard tell dere might be some good soil mender come from 'ere. Ye knowd 'im?"

Taran looks down at the cup of mead, then back at the barman. Perhaps cards have been dealt, and someone's waiting to see what the hand shows.

The barman, however, just grins at Muri. It's a friendly, unassuming sort of grin that doesn't give a damn for anything. It could have letters stamped across those yellowish teeth, reading, 'No offense, you're just not a priority right now'. Leaning on the bar, he props himself on his elbows to consider Muri for a long, thoughtful moment. "Well. Mebbe I do, mebbe I don't. What's it worth t' yeh?"

Muri rolls the cup between her palms and quirks a smile which lifts one side of her mask slightly. "Wall Ah 'spects dat'll depend on ye," she says. "Ah'm a fair wimmin, gotta do wots right fer me farm." She sets two more coins on the counter which glitter in the lamplight. "Dere's a small gratui'ty fer ye. Ah'm willin' t'pay fer de knowin'." She tilts her head toward Taran. "Dis one haint as patient sometimes. If de info's right, dere's more t'dat t'comes."

Taran sets a small bag of heavy coin by Muri's offering. "Carrot," he says, meeting the barman's eyes. There's really no doubt as to where the stick is. Or who'd get hit with it.

The bartender smiles that winning, vaguely uninterested smile again and sweeps both offerings of coin into his hand. A brief moment of weighing follows, and he nods. "Yeh outsiders 's catchin' on," he commends. "Yah, mebbe I do ken 'im, den. Whatcha wanna know 'bout ol' Septus? 'e in trubble 'gain?"

Muri shakes her head. "We're jus' lookin' fer some good soil mender," she says. "Somefin' special, got a strong smell not lahk anythin' evah made afore. Black's de man we're told t'see. Jus' needs a location from ye. Would be right kind fer ye t'elp us."

Taran smiles slightly at the word 'outsider'. Just slightly.

"Mmph. An hones' farm woman don' go wand'rin' aroun' wi' a body guard," the bartender says with a pointed look at Taran. "But it ain't no bus'ness o' mine what mess ol' Septus 'as got 'imself inta now. Yah, 'e sells de stuff yeh're lookin' for. Don' s'pose yeh'd 'appen t' 'ave a li'l somethin' on yeh t'... uh... ease meh mem'ry?"

Muri raises a brow. "Seems yer mem'ry's already fain," she replies, a chill in her voice. "Ye seems t'fergit wot all ye already been giv'n." She glances at Taran. "Don' gotta make it 'arder fer neither o'us, Messer. Jus' needs t'ave w'ere we c'n find Black. Ye've got a days wage 'n then some wid wot ye gots from us. Mayhaps we cut our losses 'nstead." She stands and begins to turn away.

Taran smiles, and raises his bright staff. "How many bones do you want broken, Mistress?" he asks, quietly pleased.

The bartender sighs, straightening, folding his arms, and considering Taran with his staff for a long moment, and Muri's retreating back. "I, fer one, woul' say 'none', if'n yeh please," he says calmly, with the tone of one who's used to such threats and not only is fully aware of the offer's authenticity, is completely unsurprised by its making. He nods to the door. "Yeh see dat door? Walk straigh' out through it an' cross de street. Take a lef', an' count 'zactly twen'y seven doors afore yeh stop. De fields yeh see dere be 'is."

Muri glances back to the bartender, a twinkle in her eyes. "None tis a good number," she murmurs. "Twenty-seven is one t'members fer later. Ah'm 'opin' tis only a number o'doors. Don' thin' ye gots more den 27 ribs. 'opes de inf'rmation's sound. 'ates t'find out ofverwise." She turns back and winks at Taran. "Thankee, ye've been mos' 'elpful," she calls as they leave. "Ah haint fergittin' yer kindness."

Taran nods to the bartender, in a 'just business' sort of way, then turns to follow Muri outside.

The bartender actually makes a motion to his forehead and grins again, as if tipping his hat to Taran. Flipping the coins in his pocket with a soft chink, he turns back to his business.

Return to Season 8 (2008)