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[Seven Xu]

Seven stared hard at the pouch between his knuckles. He’d been robbed, plainly put, and by a child no less. Worst of all, he hadn’t even noticed.

The Shinya of Lhavit had always kept crime at a minimum; Alvadas had the Silencers, or Listeners, or what have you (he could never quite remember), more stories of horror than anything in his experience; and Syliras had the knights, implacable forces charged to guard their fortress city at every corner and every tavern. Insofar as he knew, Zeltiva had none of these.

Not that he was so stupid as to carry much anyway. A handful of silver-rims could last him through a day, being a light drinker and an even lighter diner. The sheltered harbour town offered little in the way of fresh produce, but there was bread and fish—well, there was bread. Seven felt a twinge and a rumble deep in his gut at the prospect of food. He’d eaten an apple earlier in the morning, and that was enough to occupy his weak stomach for a few bells, but it was already long past noon, and it was complaining again.

He was still queasily ruminating over his near-misfortune as the question reached his ears. Red eyes rolled upward to catch the smiling stare of a man in his element. “Yeah,” he fumbled to tuck away his purse—this time safely in the depths of the haversack he toted—and find the strip of paper that held their destination. “I think it said House of—ah, here,” he squinted, smoothed the crumpled note, and offered it up to the glassworker. “Terrence Abatelli, House of … Nah-deer? Nay-dur?”

Seven hugged the canvas bag to his hip. “You sure it’s in this part of town?”

[Montaine]

‘Nadir?’ Monty asked, his eyes widening a little in surprise, ‘The House of Nadir? The old man sent us there?’ he snorted and started to laugh. The House of Nadir was an establishment possessing a certain repute. Ostensibly an inn, insomuch as it boasted plenty of bedrooms and a bar stocked with plenty of alcohol and staffed by plenty of buxom young ladies, the House catered to a varied clientele. Situated well within East Street but close enough to the docks as to provide steady business, the place was a popular stop for sailors, giving those about to leave town one last hurrah and those just coming back an incredibly warm welcome. The enterprise was run by a Madam Rosary Nadir, as shrewd a business mind as ever there was and well versed in all of the varied aspects of her trade. Montaine had never met her personally, knowing her only by her formidable reputation amongst the sort that frequented the Street. ‘It’s a whorehouse,’ he said to Seven, ‘I didn’t know the old man even knew this place existed, let alone had connections there. But hey, if that’s where he’s sent us, that’s where we go. Ain’t far, not that I’ve ever had the inclination to try out their particular wares, but the place is pretty big, can’t miss it, big ol’ sign outside,’ Indeed the building that housed Nadir’s bordello was impressive. It sat on the corner of East Street and one of its many offshoot alleyways, spread round a considerable way along both roads. It squatted like some hulking behemoth, its doors open and inviting at its mouth. The sign outside stretched from the roof of the building down to just above the entrance and was painted immaculately with the words ‘The House of Nadir’, accompanied by a pair of winking eyes. For all of the shady, shadowy connotations of East Street and the businesses that resided therein, the House was not subtle.

OOCFeel free to take us in if you want, and describe the place. It's a little more ostentatious than I first imagined in my head, but I liked Madam Nadir so much I just ran with it.

[Seven Xu]

“A whorehouse,” Seven echoed flatly, finding less amusement in the prospect than his flippant companion, “for a lens grinder. Makes sense to me.”

The pair stepped off the thoroughfare and through the yawning entrance. Shutters on windows were closed; the high afternoon sun streamed through on yellow rays riddled with lazy dust motes from warped slits on window sills and the gaping door. It took a moment for Seven’s strained eyes to relax and adjust to the lamp-lit dusk, though it was a welcome relief.

He shouldn’t have been surprised at the lavish spread before him, given the display from outside, but Seven’s nose wrinkled and his brows twisted into something incredulous as he stopped to take in the sight. Zeltiva’s House of Nadir wasn’t like anything he’d seen before—not that he was a frequenter of whorehouses—with its tawdry décor, half-dozen round tables lined with gamblers and sailors, and a gathering of women as well-stocked as the bar to their right, it was a far cry from Lhavit’s humble Red Lantern, the likes of which he’d only glimpsed as a curious boy through dirty windows.

The ceiling was tall, open through to the upper floor and ending in a crisscross of fine yellow-gold oak rafters; a staircase sat at the back of the room, winding up the wall to the second floor’s balustrade; doors lined the floor above them, each shut tight and undecorated, they were the plainest things in view.

Lost for a clever remark, Seven turned to the glassworker with a look of crooked bemusement. “Should we,” his voice wavered, and he cleared his throat, “uh, ask around for this Abatelli fellow?”

[Montaine]

The glassworker had been inside brothels before. He’d never partaken of the establishments’ raunchier services, though he had had a girl paid for in his stead on his seventeenth birthday by a well meaning colleague. The evening had started enjoyably enough, with him and his friends and co-workers getting just as drunk as they could afford, but after he was led rather unwillingly into a bedroom by a particularly eager young lady of the night he spent the next half hour awkwardly avoiding her vague attempts at fulfilling her contract. It was a rather difficult feat, given the two were shut into the pokiest little room the place provided. Since that particularly miserable experience, Montaine had ensured that during any subsequent visits he only partook in the most wholesome of activities, drinking himself absolutely bladdered. Given Calbert’s certainty that the lens grinder would be here, and the absence of any particular time, it seemed logical to Monty to assume the man was a regular. There were a couple of seedy looking gentleman hovering around, any of whom could have been Mister Abatelli. None of them had a particularly lens-grindery look to them, but then again Monty had never met a lens grinder before, not a professional one. He had, however, met plenty of barmen and his fair share of working women and knew that amongst both professions one was liable to find someone liable to natter. Monty turned to Seven, ‘Alright, shouldn’t be too hard to find him, we should ask around. You want to take the barmen or the brauds?’ he said, raising one hand and gesturing it towards the bar and then the other towards the gaggle of prostitutes lounging nearby.

[Seven Xu]

Seven’s red gaze flickered between his options. “I don’t want to take any of them,” the glib halfblood muttered through a thin smile, “can’t understand half of what they say, anyway.”

Despite his answer, Seven offered his comrade a nod before shuffling off in search of answers from whores. Why whores? Why not a group of well-mannered scholars? What sort of lens grinder frequented a whorehouse to a point where its address superseded their own? The questions were still itching at him even as he stopped before the semicircle of women, sitting and leaning and chattering among themselves. A few looked up, and one spoke, her grinning mouth full of yellowed teeth.

“Five moons fer a petchin’, two fer th’mouth,” she looked him up and down, “if yer wantin’ the arse or anyfin’ weird, it’s extra.” Then she paused, her brows furrowing. “An’ widows ain’t allowed t’finish in my girls.”

“I’m looking for a man named Abatelli,” Seven’s smile had grown strained and his pale face red. His fingers wanted for something to occupy themselves with. They settled on the brass buttons boasted by his overpriced waistcoat. “Terrence Abatelli—have you seen him?”

“Brandy.”

Seven’s attention darted for a second to the bar for Montaine; the most familiar man in the house—and even then, he was little more than a name and a decent face—who looked irksomely comfortable in an exchange with a barman twice his size. “Pardon me?”

“’E’s ‘ere all the time, always askin’ fer Brandy; ’e went wif ‘er, last I seen both of ‘em. Shouldn’t be long now luv, if’n ye want to relax, yerself.” The whore turned to a doughy girl on her side, all amber curls and pale flesh rippling out of her tightly cinched top, and put on her best, crooked, saccharine smile for their guest. “Looks like ‘e needs it.”

[Montaine]

As Seven wandered towards the charming businesswomen, Monty made his way to the bar and plonked himself on one of the stools. He dug his hand into his pocket and withdrew a few coins, placing them on the counter. The barman nodded and started pouring up a mug of the only drink on offer. The fellow was big, bulky. He didn’t quite match Gadger for sheer size but he looked trained, experienced. In locales such as these often barman and bouncer were one and the same. No doubt he had some sort of weapon beneath the bar. Over at the Councillor’s Head there was a crossbow hidden amongst the mugs and Mory swore blind that petite Missus Ibsen who owned the Rose and Stern had once threatened him with a flail. The barman passed him his drink and took the coins, ‘You an’ that fella lookin’ fer anyone in partic’lar? Betty’s pretty popular, expensive though,’ Monty smirked and shook his head, ‘She’s a little out of our price range, we’re actually lookin’ for a fella by the name of Abatelli, know him?’ The man’s eyebrows furrowed and rose as he struggled to comprehend the request, eventually, after much painful thought, he said, ‘I know ‘im, but I don’ think he does that sort o’ thing, you want one o’ the gels,’ Monty forced a laugh, ‘No, no, not like that. We’ve got other business with him, unrelated business,’ ‘Oh!’ the barman said, his mouth hanging open a little too long and his features relaxing into a gormless smile, ‘Yeah, okay, ‘e used to rent a room ‘ere, but Madam Ros’ry kicked ‘im out when ‘e stopped payin’ his bills, ‘e’s got a room over at the Dirty Spoon, but still comes round for the gels now ‘n’ again, best check with them. But if ‘e is ‘ere, ‘e’ll be in room twelve. ‘E says it’s got the mos’ comf’table bed,’ Montaine nodded, thanked the man, and downed his drink. He slid off his seat and made his way over to where Seven was looking increasingly uncomfortable. The swiftness with which he had consumed his beverage was having the mildest of effects, and he felt his mood rather improved. Though he was tempted to chalk it down, at least in part, to the sight of the dapper gentleman accosted by whores. He patted the man on his back. ‘Hello ladies,’ he said, nodding to the assembled prostitutes, and turned to Seven, ‘Found anything to interest you?’

[Seven Xu]

“I ‘uhrd widows got bittersweet kisses,” said Betty, pursing her cherry lips together as she tossed her chin in Montaine’s direction. “Come on, now. Five fer the evenin’—seven, and yer friend can watch.”

Seven tensed and his head swivelled toward the source of the hand on his back. His reciprocating smile was stiff; he snorted a laugh despite not wanting to laugh and rolled his eyes. “No.” The halfblood paused and turned his attentions toward the bar. “Apparently our man is otherwise occupied, but he’s here.”

He had learned through reputation alone Zeltiva’s limited selection of alcohol—it was all some green-brown swill that barely frothed at all, served by the mugful at the bar to men too eager to drink themselves numb—but he’d never tried it. If Victor’s candid description of the drink was a reliable point of reference even after having spent a year chugging Alvadas’ worst, the innocuously-named kelp beer wasn’t something that Seven was eager to sample. Though, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to dull the senses.

“Shall we wait over a drink or two?” It was less a question than an offer; Seven had already put heels to aged hardwood in an attempt to distance himself from the gaggle of nattering women. He hooked a couple of thin and mismatched fingers around the crook of his company’s elbow and tugged, urging his pursuit. “Come on, it’s on me,” and then over his shoulder, added, “Good night, ladies.”

[Montaine]

As Monty bade a pleasant evening to the women and accompanied Seven back to the bar, the huddle of whores sneered and returned to their business. One of the younger ones made a swift, rude hand gesture at their backs. Montaine sat himself back down on the bar stool and looked up at the doors on the next level. Judging by the number of closed doors business was doing alright tonight. It wasn’t particularly late in the day, but a fair number of rooms appeared to be occupied. Many people looked down on prostitution as a morally questionable, personally degrading profession, yet it was one of the harbour city’s most thriving enterprises. Zeltiva was known as much for its docks as its university, and after a long voyage at sea there were three things all sailors longed for: drinks; soft beds; and pleasant company, and Madam Rosary provided all three in spades. ‘Two beers,’ Montaine said, nodding to the bartender, ‘Now we just have to wait for him to be done,’ The barman looked up as he poured the drinks, ‘You still waitin’ fer Ab’telli? Ah, ‘e never takes long, Brandy says ‘e’s too quick wit’ ‘is blade, if you get my meanin’,’ Monty’s smile slowly curled into a grimace and his brows furrowed as he was forced to unravel the man’s metaphor, ‘Which one’s twelve?’ he asked. The bartender nodded to the upstairs, north west corner, ‘That ‘un up there,’ Monty thanked him and took his drink, gesturing to Seven when the barman held out his hand for payment. The more popular bells for business were fast approaching and the glassworker noticed a few of the women readjusting their clothes and hair. Perhaps that was why Calbert let him off early. Abatelli was a poor man, by the bartender’s estimation, and almost certainly couldn’t afford the House’s rates at peak times. Monty nursed his drink, and kept his eyes trained on the door to room twelve.

[Seven Xu]

A palmful of bronze-rims rang on the counter as they left Seven’s outstretched hand. Then, he snatched up the pint glass and took his perch on the stool at Monty’s side, following the brunette’s eyes to the twelfth door. Seven crossed his legs and leaned forward to satisfy an itch on a scarred ankle, where something had gnawed his flesh apart through the night. Midges, fleas, he couldn’t be sure. At his back, he heard the scratch of his coins leaving in the satisfied mitt of the tender.

“There’s something uncomfortable about waiting for a man to finish his petching,” Seven remarked, grinning over the thick rim of his mug. He paused to quaff the Zeltivan swill as if it were Alvadas’ worst, tasteless and coppery and familiar. The other half of the bastard’s witty comment was forgotten. He spluttered, he choked, and tears glazed eyes that had grown as wide as saucers in terrible shock.

“Gods,” he juddered, wiping the corners of his mouth and glaring into the offensive, briny gold-green. “Tell me it gets better.”

Seven was still weighing sobriety against the glorified seawater in his glass when their door opened and their man emerged. His clothing may have been fine, once, now moth-eaten and ill-fitting; streaks of grey peppered hair long enough that his long and slim fingers were tucking it into a neat bun as he descended the main stair; and more noticeably, to a man whose height was the centre of his insecurities, he was short—shorter than Seven and Montaine by nearly a head. Seven forced another mouthful of kelp beer, swallowed a grimace, and rose.

“Mister Abatelli,” the halfblood offered his hand, remembering the fondness for the gesture in Sylira, and laid on a thick smile as the lens maker took it. “My name is Seven, and this is my friend the glassworker, Monty,” he gestured, “I believe you know his employer. We’re looking to speak with you; we hear you’re rather talented in the art of grinding lenses.”

[Montaine]

Monty snorted at Seven’s distaste for the only drink in Zeltiva and downed his own, his face contorting into a similar scowl as the swill burned down his throat. As his acquaintance got up from his stool, the glassworker followed behind and inclined his head at the mention of his name. Abatelli had descended to the ground floor with a satisfied smile, which briefly faltered as he encountered the pair at the base of the staircase and finally vanished altogether after the references to ‘glassworker’ and ‘employer’. ‘Pleasure, sirs,’ he said, nodded to Seven and Monty each in turn and used his grip on the half widower’s hand to shove him roughly into his companion. The pair landed on the floor of the brothel with a bump as the lens grinder made a doddering dash for the exit. Judging by the pungent scent of kelp beer in the air and his somewhat unbalanced gait, the man appeared to have been drinking quite considerably throughout the day and was making a curious whining sound as he ran, whatever fitness he might have had in his youth having long since waned. Montaine helped Seven to his feet and rubbed his temple. This was not going precisely to plan. As the young man considered the prospect of chasing after the old lens grinder there was a screech from upstairs as a rather underdressed young lady with a heavily painted face barrelled out of Abatelli’s previously occupied room and down the stairs. ‘Oi! Petching shyke! Shykin’ son of a petchin’ vagik whore bastard!’ the young woman screamed at the door as it slammed shut behind the fleeing man, ‘Bastard done gives me tin discs!’ The woman held up a money purse and emptied it out onto the floor, a handful of thin metal discs clattering to the ground, ‘If that shyker comes in ‘ere agin wit’out my money, ‘es bloody gutted alrigh’?’ The bartender nodded at her and she spun round on her heels. Montaine accidentally caught her gaze and she snarled at him as she stormed off towards a backroom, ‘Petch it, sly boy.’