I woke up with a start.
"Oh no, not some nightwork again!"
My head still was dizzy from last night's pleasures. As usual in my nights off, I just had dropped out of the workshop's backdoor and entered the neighbouring backdoor, traditionally reserved for those who come for entertainment and education, or to fulfil their duties as craftspersons. As far as I was concerned, whichever door I used, Margala's girls always were adept at providing their services in exchange for mine.
Take that dirty grin off your face. No, keep it there, these things happened once or twice, too... but that's a different story.
My services were, of course, those of my craft as a jeweller. The simple fact that uncle Brin had not thrown me out in my four years of apprenticehood should be sufficient proof that my skills as a jeweller were good. I do have an eye for quality gems, a good hand at replicas, and a light touch at modifying pieces of jewelry past easy recognition. This was due in part to some natural talent I seem to share with my uncle, but also his expert if a bit harsh lessons, and many hours of real work, to finance my other nights off. Well, you can hardly spend your adolescence in Karse in the house next to Margala's and not be drawn into its glamorous world.
Margala and her girls were good customers of mine (and of Brin's), anyway, and it helped our business a lot to know just which trinket would be perfect on which girl.
Now imagine a lad of thirteen, freshly arrived from his grandfather's house outside of Seapolis, exposed to all these deliciously scanty-clad beauties of Margala's Temple of Love. Naturally I was curious about them, and my sleeping-pad below the roof offered me a good opportunity for some daring glimpses on the proceedings next door. Up the loft ladder, upon the roof, and down into Margala's loft soon became a known routine, for all its daring on an ofttime slippery roof. I would have had proceeded further had I found a notion to move the heavy lid upon the stairway leading up from Margala's chambers of sweet promise. However, there were a few knotholes allowing me to view small pieces of reality below me, and most attractive pieces they were. So attractive that one night I failed to notice the arrival of Young Hereward, at that time still a junior Mocker and frequent guest of one of Margala's girls. He had come the Mockers' Highway, just as I had, though over a longer distance, and now wanted to find out about the unlicensed competition he suspected in me.
The Mockers, as our local ring of Lanbrili thieves and consorts are called, are as tough a bunch of cutpurses and even cutthroats as you will find in Kethaela. Being in constant competition with the Jaws of Krarsht who would take over the trade at once given any chance they were careful to keep the roofs clear from any intruders, lest they be foul chaos. Sometimes their members became outright patriots, and on one occasion every lay brother (and sister) had been alerted for a chaos hunt over roofs and through the sewer. Most of the dead bodies drifting through the harbour next morning likely were nothing worse than hired thugs ignorant that they were working for the Hungry Maw, but one of their leaders escaped by teleporting away, likely a Tongue or even a Mouth, and another we caught and interrogated definitely was a Lip. Only three days ride from Larnste's Footprint there was an endless supply of Krarshti to harrass Karse...
There I was on the roof, interrogated with a knife at my throat. I don't want to reiterate the details, but I had a hard time convincing Hereward I did not worship the devouring maw, that I would not enter his business, sweating blood and more in the process. I think Hereward carried on the interrogation long after he had been convinced, just for the fun of it. When he was finished with me, he "promised" to keep an eye on me. As it turned out, he did, drawing me into the activities of the Mockers.
I never was required to tip off customers of Brin. I did serve as a letterbox for some time, receiving and passing on strange messages making no sense to me, at least at first. I remember that when I had learned a bit of the thieves' cant, I was disappointed at the banality of some of the messages. Once or twice I was allowed to accompany Hereward, either as a receiver (of cut purses), or simply as a watchout.
Naturally, when I jumped up from my precious restful sleep, I expected a grinning Mocker or a lovely girl from Margala's to have knocked on my window with some thrown pebble, bearing another urgent request for a rework. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pushed open the shutters and peered out. I couldn't have slept longer than an hour or two, yet the city was almost alight as from bright stars. There wasn't anybody around that I knew, though.
Somewhere down the Baron's Court I saw a shadow within a stable entrance, hardly discernible from its surroundings. There was, however, a hand on the doorframe, stretching out the right number of fingers to make me collect my tools and other gear, sling fasten the silken rope that Argan Argar trader had charged me such an exorbitant sum to the beam protruding slightly from the roof construction next to my window, and slide down. I had left my room this way more often than I can recall, usually returning through Margala's estate and the loft trapdoors. I could have left through Margala's, too, but my friends from the Ring were too impatient to wait for the multiple goodbyes I had to spread on that way. A pity... So I slung the scarf holding a set of the tools of my trade around my waste, fastened the sword belt with the twin pair of Rhigosite sabres over that, and grabbed a sea sack with those implements too bulky to wear on my person. Heck, if they'd just give me the pieces and let me work them over in a silent minute in the workshop, the results would be better, but often enough the guys seemed to get burnt fingers from their untreated treasures. For a finishing touch I added a fancy hat and a foppish cloak, the kind currently en vogue in Nochet, and relying on my work gloves I slid down the rope, then untwisted it and stowed it away. Sliding aside a few steps, I left the shadow of Brin's workshop, motioned as if to fasten my trews, and staggered merrily over from Margala's to Jason's Arms. There still were a few sleepy retainers keeping company with their masters' steeds in the open stable annex of Joshua's, but as usual the saddle blankets hanging from the beams obscured my descent, and after a short glance whether they had to leave with their master they nodded off again.
End of Glorantha Digest V3 #25
WWW material at http://hops.wharton.upenn.edu/~loren/rolegame.html
Powered by hypermail