64 Fall 522
“Kid, don’t sweat it, I promise you there’s only and exactly one cook back there with hair like a - “ Caspian pauses. Determines it will probably not be very helpful if he describes the ornamental – lettuce? Cabbage? Debatably edible, flowery-type thing he had once seen growing in the gardens at Shell Cottage in Zeltiva. “Well, it’s pink and purple, let’s leave it at that.”
The snot-nosed child looks to be of an age just into the double digits. Of all the miscreants screwing around on the streets, Caspian had tried to select the least snotty, minimally muddy of the bunch. One hoped it suggested they were more timely and responsible about carrying out their tasks, especially if coppers were involved.
One of which Caspian flicks him now, which he snatches up with surprising alacrity, like a cat after a fly. Already the piece of parchment balled up in the kid’s fist is starting to stain with whatever grime he’s accumulated so far that day in his palms. Ah well. At this juncture, can’t be helped.
“Go on,” Caspian says, shooing the kid away, and only after the kid takes off down the streets does he realize it’s quite possible that literacy itself might be an issue here. Can the kid read well enough to pick out the letters for the Drunken Fish? Too late for that now; anyway, Caspian had described the block well enough, and most people around here, even from a young age, would be well aware of the seasoned establishment.
On that piece of parchment had been a simple map. Just a few lines in black charcoal, denoting the Drunken Fish, and two streets west and one north, an X marking the yard where Caspian would be waiting. Below the map, a few words were scrawled – ”Tomorrow, noon, if you can swing it. –C”
“What was that all about?”
Caspian meets his sister’s narrowed eyes with a look of innocence. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would, that’s why I’m asking,” she replies testily.
“You know, the fact you don’t already know just tells me you’re slipping.”
“Contrary to your belief, I have other things to do than keep tabs on you.”
But Caspian tells her about the whole affair with Moritz anyway.
“So, like, if by two p.m. I’m not back in our apartment, please assume Moritz broke all my bones. And please do come find me and cart me out.”
Taalviel frowns.
“He wouldn’t do it on purpose,” Caspian insists. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t…”
The idea had been a jolly one to agree to that night he’d run into Moritz at the back of the Drunken Fish. But now, a week and a day later, as he’s marching himself to the designated spot, he feels his resolve cracking. When was the last time he’d been punched in the face? He’s about due for it – he can imagine quite a few people who would line up for it – but the idea, no matter how much of this will be for his own good, isn’t something one necessarily looks forward to.
In the yard, he leans against a crumbling brick wall, and waits for Moritz to arrive.
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