Forgive Me, Father
9th of Fall, 517
18th Bell
9th of Fall, 517
18th Bell
"You look like you could use a drink." was all Cade, the barman at the Stallion’s Rear, said in greeting to the woman that pulled herself through his door.
Madeira pushed a lock of hair off her forehead and hobbled to the bar. The click of her cane almost eclipsed the dry scrape of her dead foot dragging across the floor. Her bright blue dress and leather pack were dusty and the chignon at the back of her head was frayed. The skin showing through her modest sleeves and collar were the sickly sallow colour all of those recovering from the plague. She looked thin and shaky, yet there was a determined set to her thin lips and her pale eyes were bright. The rings on her fingers glittered icily on the bar top as she lowered herself onto a stool.
The bar was intimately small and never empty. A low babble of talk hovered in the air as dockworkers and shoremen enjoyed the end of their workday. Madeira didn't concern herself with the other patrons, and waved away the empty glass Cade put in front of her.
"I'm not here to drink, thank you. I actually have something I'd like to talk to you about."
The barman didn't seem terribly impressed to be wasting his time with an unpaying customer, but nodded for her to continue.
"I've been out all day looking for a man called Bron Quayle Junior. Do you recognize the name?"
"I know a Bron Quayle. I don't know a Junior. Why? What trouble is Bron is?"
Madeira exhaled hard through her nose. She was beginning to think the man she was looking for didn't exist. The housing office had no record of him after the Summer of 510, and she made a poor, harassed Serenity Berel check the labour records three times before accepting that he had never applied for a job. And the various clubhouses and social businesses she searched had never heard of him either. He might as well have drifted through life as a pocket of air for all the trace he was leaving behind.
"He's not in trouble." she ground her knuckle into her temple, where a headache was starting to brew. "I'm sorry to say Bron senior passed away several weeks ago. I need to talk to his son."
Cade paused to frown into the mug he was polishing. "Tis' a shame. He was a good man, generous with his tips. What do you need with his son?"
"His father would like to speak to him."
There was a tick where the Avalad seemed to grind to a halt. The wheels of his brain gummed up with that impossible thought. But a native Avalad didn't let logic get in the way of reason. After a moment he nodded, satisfied with his own conclusions as his mind came back up to speed.
"You'd be one of those Craven's, then."
"I'm Madeira, a friend of Ambrosia's. Pleasure."
They shook amiably, his large hand squeezing her boney fingers uncomfortably. Wincing as she extracted herself from his grip, she did her best to settle her expression into something gentle and sympathetic as she asked him about the recently deceased.
“Did you know Bron well?”
“Nah, not too well. He was mighty talkative when he was drunk, though.” He put down the cleanly polished mug and took two shot glasses from under the bar. He poured degtine into both and pushed one to Madeira solemnly. “To Bron!” he toasted loudly. Not wanting to offend him, Madeira touched glasses reluctantly and took the shot.
“D-did he ever talk about his son?” she sputtered as the alcohol burned down her throat.
Cade threw his own shot back and sighed with satisfaction, as if it had been a refreshing glass of water. “Like I said, never knew he had a son. He talked a lot ‘bout his ships, though. He was some high-flying merchant. He liked to buy the whole bar a drink when his boats came in.”
“Did he have a group he sat with? Drinking buddies? Anything like that?”
“Oh, he’d come in with everybody, anybody. Always up for a good time, that man. He had a preference for the company of the ladies though. Even the whor-“ he paused and glanced down at Madeira like he just noticed she was there. “He liked the ladies”, he cleared his throat loudly.
From across the room a man with a wide mouth and a lime green brocade cloak whistled and held three fingers aloft. Cade lifted his own hand in acknowledgement.
"I have to see to my patrons, now. Are you sure I can't get you a drink?"
"No, I'm ok. I'll rest here for a moment then be on my way. Thank you for your time."
He nodded and left her at the bar, after pouring and carrying out three more shots of degtine for the pleasure of the man who Madeira decided looked incredibly like a frog. The Spiritist rested her forehead on her steepled hands. How was she ever going to find the Bron Quayle Junior?
Madeira pushed a lock of hair off her forehead and hobbled to the bar. The click of her cane almost eclipsed the dry scrape of her dead foot dragging across the floor. Her bright blue dress and leather pack were dusty and the chignon at the back of her head was frayed. The skin showing through her modest sleeves and collar were the sickly sallow colour all of those recovering from the plague. She looked thin and shaky, yet there was a determined set to her thin lips and her pale eyes were bright. The rings on her fingers glittered icily on the bar top as she lowered herself onto a stool.
The bar was intimately small and never empty. A low babble of talk hovered in the air as dockworkers and shoremen enjoyed the end of their workday. Madeira didn't concern herself with the other patrons, and waved away the empty glass Cade put in front of her.
"I'm not here to drink, thank you. I actually have something I'd like to talk to you about."
The barman didn't seem terribly impressed to be wasting his time with an unpaying customer, but nodded for her to continue.
"I've been out all day looking for a man called Bron Quayle Junior. Do you recognize the name?"
"I know a Bron Quayle. I don't know a Junior. Why? What trouble is Bron is?"
Madeira exhaled hard through her nose. She was beginning to think the man she was looking for didn't exist. The housing office had no record of him after the Summer of 510, and she made a poor, harassed Serenity Berel check the labour records three times before accepting that he had never applied for a job. And the various clubhouses and social businesses she searched had never heard of him either. He might as well have drifted through life as a pocket of air for all the trace he was leaving behind.
"He's not in trouble." she ground her knuckle into her temple, where a headache was starting to brew. "I'm sorry to say Bron senior passed away several weeks ago. I need to talk to his son."
Cade paused to frown into the mug he was polishing. "Tis' a shame. He was a good man, generous with his tips. What do you need with his son?"
"His father would like to speak to him."
There was a tick where the Avalad seemed to grind to a halt. The wheels of his brain gummed up with that impossible thought. But a native Avalad didn't let logic get in the way of reason. After a moment he nodded, satisfied with his own conclusions as his mind came back up to speed.
"You'd be one of those Craven's, then."
"I'm Madeira, a friend of Ambrosia's. Pleasure."
They shook amiably, his large hand squeezing her boney fingers uncomfortably. Wincing as she extracted herself from his grip, she did her best to settle her expression into something gentle and sympathetic as she asked him about the recently deceased.
“Did you know Bron well?”
“Nah, not too well. He was mighty talkative when he was drunk, though.” He put down the cleanly polished mug and took two shot glasses from under the bar. He poured degtine into both and pushed one to Madeira solemnly. “To Bron!” he toasted loudly. Not wanting to offend him, Madeira touched glasses reluctantly and took the shot.
“D-did he ever talk about his son?” she sputtered as the alcohol burned down her throat.
Cade threw his own shot back and sighed with satisfaction, as if it had been a refreshing glass of water. “Like I said, never knew he had a son. He talked a lot ‘bout his ships, though. He was some high-flying merchant. He liked to buy the whole bar a drink when his boats came in.”
“Did he have a group he sat with? Drinking buddies? Anything like that?”
“Oh, he’d come in with everybody, anybody. Always up for a good time, that man. He had a preference for the company of the ladies though. Even the whor-“ he paused and glanced down at Madeira like he just noticed she was there. “He liked the ladies”, he cleared his throat loudly.
From across the room a man with a wide mouth and a lime green brocade cloak whistled and held three fingers aloft. Cade lifted his own hand in acknowledgement.
"I have to see to my patrons, now. Are you sure I can't get you a drink?"
"No, I'm ok. I'll rest here for a moment then be on my way. Thank you for your time."
He nodded and left her at the bar, after pouring and carrying out three more shots of degtine for the pleasure of the man who Madeira decided looked incredibly like a frog. The Spiritist rested her forehead on her steepled hands. How was she ever going to find the Bron Quayle Junior?
