Wildfire Riders

There were four guards, bulky and heavily armed, spaced around the chamber. There was a brace of breech-loading hand cannons under the desk. There was a sniper somewhere, so well concealed that even the Admiral couldn't find him off the dot. His guests had been disarmed at the door. And still, Raza Breakwater was sweating. It hadn't been much more than a year since the last time he'd been in this same situation, and he'd come very close to dying that day. Every day that entire week, in fact - so maybe it was just the association, and not any actual fear for his life when the odds were completely in his favor.

But a goblin in his position really had to be honest with himself. It was the latter.

"Let's play straight," he said, shaking off the nerves with an irritable twitch of his neck. "You want use of my properties for a week, my backing of your stake at the tables, and my name as assurance against harm. And in return, you offer me...nothing." He leveled a gaze at the taller of the two pale yellow-haired things standing across from him. "Straight?"

"Half again your normal cut, wasn't it?" The woman, Elcare or some such, was a gorgeous specimen, just delicate-looking enough to assure the Admiral that she most certainly wasn't.

"That's nothing." He raised a thick-fingered hand. "First off, a cut of your winnings is nothing, because you won't keep winning, because nobody ever fucking does unless they're conning the house. In which case, it's my fat green ass on the line for you, and I don't see Prince Kezan coming out of the clouds with sacks of cash for all, so that's not happening. Second off, even if you did keep winning, money is fucking nothing. I could buy and sell you both ten times before sunset." He paused. "Seven, at least."

"Playin' this yin hard, are yeh no', mate?" Every time Tarquin ap Danwyrith smiled, Raza had to keep himself from going for one, or maybe both, of his guns - partially on survival instinct, partially on principle. "A share fir yir backin', a payment fir a room at t'inn - s'a fair standard deal."

"Yeah, well, you're not a standard fucking guest." Breakwater matched the smile with a steely glare, a weight of beetle-browed scowl over the top of his braided collar and epaulets. "My boys say you walk through walls and cheat kings at dice, and that when you snap your fingers, an arrow drills itself through a warlord's brainpan. The Horde calls you Oathbreaker, the Alliance calls you traitor, and a bunch of fire-flinging lunatics and bloodthirsty elf cannibals call you boss. You're a pain in the ass with a hat on." He switched his gaze to the woman. "And you, lady, I don't even know who the fuck you are, but any woman passing time with this skinny white ghost is nobody I want anything to do with."

She smiled at him. He did not feel the urge to reach for his guns. "Are you always this smooth with the girls, Admiral? Think if you don't know who I am, that'd be a fine reason to play it careful." Her eyes flicked around the room. "Don't know how goblins say it, but in Stormwind, there's all sorts of warnings about getting familiar with mystery women."

Raza snorted. "Not bad. And that's an even better reason for me to tell you to fuck off and get off my ship."

"Wis gonna say, mate," piped up Tarquin, "I'm enjoyin' the new boat. Stays even a fair deal better'n the last."

"It's a ship, and you're leaving it. Lucky for you, I'm not going to tell that carroty prick in the City you were down here. Not today, anyway. Boys?" Before the guards could move in, the woman stepped forward.

"Come on, Admiral. Aren't you the least bit curious what brings us down here? What sort of business we have planned that requires the cooperation of such an infamous...businessman..." She didn't say pirate, and he could hear her not saying it. "...with a personal grudge against us? It's a bit of a risk, even for the Black and Red. It's got to make you curious."

The guards were hesitating. Raza cursed his race's inherent weakness for good dramatic timing. "No. Not even a little. It's some insane fucking scheme and I want nothing to do with it." He didn't raise his hand to the boys again, and both man and woman just looked at him in smiled. "Galzik's loose change, alright, fine, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Yeh tell 'im, Annie," Tarquin said, sticking his thumbs into his belt and leaning back.

The woman began to walk closer, her voice taking on a tone that somehow passed for both businesslike and intimate. "Admiral Breakwater, my name's Annalea Al'Cair, and this reprehensible fellow's offered to take me on a vacation. We have no grand plans." She paused elaborately, thinking to herself. It wasn't a seduction - it was something significantly more subtle, and appealing. "Well, alright. We plan to ruin Booty Bay. We're going to win your games of chance, defile your prettiest men and women, and be so blind stumbling drunk you can't believe we got away with it." She finished leaning against his desk, eyebrow arched, looking around the cabin with the air of a woman looking to redecorate. "And if you turn us down, you'll never see what happens when you turn Stormwind's finest criminals loose on the richest port in the south."

More subtle, more appealing, and infinitely more dangerous. Raza closed his eyes momentarily, half-expecting to hear Tarquin crow Got yeh, yeh bastard! or something similar. But the human at least had more manners than that. "Twice my normal cut. And when you drop my name, you do it with respect."

"S'if we could do elsewise, auld boy." Tarquin grinned expansively, striding up to join Annalea Al'Cair in front of his desk. "Far as any punters asks is concerned, I'm here oan account ay air frequent business, an' might be earnin' some coin at the tables ta repay the favors I owe yeh."

"Fine. Whatever." Raza reached back for a bellpull. "I'll have one of the girls show you to a suite. This had better be fucking entertaining, ap Danwyrith. Al'Cair. Now go away, I've got a motherfucker of a headache coming on just looking at you."

They moved to the door, the guards folding in around them. Tarquin glanced back over his shoulder. "An' by the by, Breakwater, Ceil sends her virra best regards."

There it is. He kept his hands away from the guns by force of a certain effort. "Yeah, I'm sure. Shaw won't try anything in Cartel territory, you half-vrykul freak. Keep your leashed devils away from me and don't make me regret this." He waved them away, ignoring the effusively barbed rejoinders, and waited until he was certain they were gone before smiling. You had to take your entertainments where you could.

The Bosun's Quarters was a deceptively modest inn. Breakwater's had girl led them along the plank streets of Booty Bay, seemingly unsure whether she should be chatting up the pair that had made her boss' teeth grind audibly, or whether she should leave them the hell alone and hope they forgot her as soon as the doors to their rooms closed behind her. In the end, she opted for the latter, and that was fine by Tarquin and Annalea. They had sights to take in along the way -- seeing which taverns looked lively, which alleys might lend well to skulking through, which others were better for pelting down at full-speed if need be. The Bay's more opulent inns were built on the higher decks of the port city -- above the stink of the docks and the rabble -- but The Bosun's Quarters was nestled snugly into the middle tier, the inn's front looking no different than any of the others near it.

Once you got past the facade, however...

"So this is how you slum it without giving up your comfort." Anna dropped her bags on the floor just inside and turned in a slow circle. The spacious common room was big enough to host a small dinner party in. Across the room, the balcony door stood open, the salt breeze stirring the curtains.

Tarquin sauntered over to it, peering out as though taking in the view, but his fingers traced the contours of the lock for a moment before he nodded. "This'll do. Annie, thank our guide fir her services."

She dropped a gold piece into the greenskin's upraised hand and steered her to the door. "Give Breakwater our best," she said, closed it in the goblin woman's face. When she turned back to the room, Tarquin had disappeared. She heard a low whistle from one of the bedrooms and followed the sound.

Tarq stood, hands on hips, taking in the setup. The bed was heaped with pillows, their decorations stitched in shimmering silk. The furniture was finely crafted, gold gilding the mirrors, the arms of the chairs, even the washbasin. Not that anyone staying in Booty Bay ever needed extra blankets, but a heap of them sat on a lush divan by the window. Anna knew Darnassian lambswool when she saw it. The blankets would fetch enough back home to pay her rent for half a year. "Yeh think we could do somethin' like this downstairs in the Pig?" He tossed a grin back over his shoulder.

"Sure. If you empty out the King's coffers."

"Put it on my list."

"When we get back, I will. I'm on vacation." The other bedroom was nearly the same, decorated in cool blues instead of the greens that graced the walls of Tarq's room. From her window, Anna could see people strolling about, enjoying Booty Bay's attractions while they waited for the sun to set and the true debauchery to begin. A woman walked by, hair piled high atop her head, wearing a dress that had to have her sweltering beneath it. The man at her side was also overdressed for the southern heat, but that wasn't what made Anna curse under her breath. His black coat bore a crest she knew, had known since she was little and memorizing the Houses at her mother's insistence. "Tarq?"

"Ayeh, Annie?" His voice came from the common room this time. When she poked her head out the door, she spied him by the window again, fiddling with the lock. He'd dragged an overstuffed armchair over to the door so he could sit while he worked on it. It was expensive seating for breaking-and-entering practice, but Tarq looked almost at home. "Have ta give it ta Breakwater. They didn't skimp oan the security. This is a fuckin' Wilmar an' Young's. If any punter in this town kin pick it, I'll eat that virra fine hat I lent yeh." The lock clicked under his ministrations. "Well. Any ither punter, ay course." He looked up at her. "What were yeh callin' for?"

"House Lambrick," she said, tapping at her lip. "Didn't they declare themselves penniless over the summer? Said that's why they couldn't donate any funds to the war efforts?"

"Ayeh, or so we heard."

"Well. I just saw Lord and Lady Lambrick heading for The Golden Anchor. Unless they're washing dishes, it's not a place broke nobles ought to be able to eat at."

For a moment, they were quiet, wheels turning in two separate golden-haired heads. But the silence between them was a sly one, of plans being mulled over, dismissed, or reworked. Anna's grin broke first, but by the time Tarq had reset and picked his lock once more, his own sharklike smile matched hers. "Put oan yir prettiest dress, Annie," he said, unfolding himself from the chair, "wir awey ta dine wi' the bankrupt."

Half an hour later, they emerged from their rooms, transformed. Anna'd buttoned herself into a crimson gown with altogether too many ruffles. It was completely impractical and the height of Stormwind fashion. Her hair was gathered up in a bun, with onyx beads tucked into the twists. She curtsied while Tarq sketched a bow, sweeping the hem of his white coat back in a manner that would impress the King himself. An intricate gold chain at his waist disappeared into the pocket of his pristine, snow-white pants.

"Didn't the man waiting beside us at the gryphons have a pocket watch?"

"'Did' bein' the operative word." Tarq held out his arm. "Yeh ready ta go make Breakwater glad he saw things air wey?"

They headed out the door, making their way towards The Golden Anchor and its patrons. Behind them, the sun was sinking into the ocean, turning the water the color of blood.

Things to consider, on a warm night in Booty Bay.

-One gold, or at least gold-colored anchor, glinting a promise in the last rays of sunset.

-One coin purse, passed between the Lord and Lady Lambrick, but more frequently in the possession of the latter.

-Seventeen hangers-on, of dubious moral and financial soundness, scattered between gambling tables like seeds in cotton.

-One gentleman in white, introduced as Raynard Collister, a dealer in fine ivories and antiques.

-One lady in red, introduced as Elspeth Van Gant, an assistant at the company of Hamilton, Crispscriven, and Lynch, barristers all.

-Six encounters in passing or secret between said gentleman and lady, with whispers and mutters exchanged.

-Eight bawdy jokes, interspersed in conversation with the Lady Emma Lambrick and sundry human leeches and dogsbodies, so as to leave no doubt of the apparent Master Collister's intentions.

-One game of Match Hazard, four hours in the running even before the entrance of the erstwhile Miss Van Gant, the players rotating and the pot growing ever larger.

-Six very watchful, very well-armed, and very bored Steamwheedle employees.

-Three hours of cards flying, coins stacking, wine glasses emptying, murmurs passing between seats, and bad decisions outweighing the good.

-Countless significant glances, but one that truly mattered, at the right moment.

-One story, patent in its falsity, of a selection of rare ivory figurines and a traveling example back at Master Collister's temporary lodgings.

-One coin purse, considered previously, finally delivered to the unsteady hands of Lord Julius Lambrick.

-Eight hundred and sixty-three yards between the Golden Anchor and an inn of fine quality, occupied largely by desultory conversation and deliberate, well-considered kissing.

-Seven thousand, seven hundred and six Stormwind-minted crowns, four jeweled rings valued at no less than eight hundred crowns apiece, and one diamond-encrusted pin, all trickling down the table with the inevitability of a waterfall, ending in the vicinity of a ruffled red dress, over the course of another four hours.

-Twenty percent of the above collected by an inscrutable goblin with a very large case.

-Seven feet and eight inches between the door of the Golden Anchor and the mud ditch where Julius Lambrick elected to spend the small hours of the morning.

-One creaky bedspring, a standard feature in the finer inns of Booty Bay for the entertainment and education of the staff, and subjected to some pressure.

-One open bedroom window.

---

The sun was nearly up by the time Tarquin made his way back inside the Bosun's Quarters. The night clerk's slight twitch of the lips spoke volumes, but there was no point in saying anything. He ambled wearily up the stairs, paused in front of the door to his room, and sighed and reached for his lockpicks. Halfway through the second pin, the door swung open.

Anna couldn't have been back very long herself; she'd changed out of the ruffled number and into a lavender nightdress, but her hair was only halfway unpinned. "Forgot your key?" She stepped out of the way to let him pass.

"Keys. Pfaugh." His dismissive gesture showed precisely what he thought of that notion.

"I'm just saying." She opened her hand to show him the glittering black hairpin concealed in her palm. "If you'd been any other criminal, breaking into a lady's room in the wee hours, I'd've been forced to use this."

Tarquin paused to peer at the tiny thing. "A hairpin. Quiverin' in my fuckin' boots, Annie - yeh might break the skin."

"Still hurts when it jabs you. I should know; they've been poking into my scalp all night." She dropped the object in question onto an end table with a clatter, then her fingers returned to the pile of curls atop her head, questing for more of the offending pins.

"Fair eno'. How'd yeh do, then?" he inquired, crossing the room to the "medicine cabinet." Normally he didn't risk goblin liquors, but as he kept reminding himself, this was vacation. Annalea smiled and picked up a laden pouch from the end table, indicating a billfold and the glint of small jewelry with her other hand.

"Between coin and letters of mark, it's about six thousand. Maybe another three in jewelry." She squinted at a particular trinket - a jeweled pin in the shape of an owl, with the particular subtle spark of diamonds. "Though I'm thinking of keeping this one. How was your night?" She looked up from the winnings with just the hint of a smile.

Tarquin thought for a moment. "Enjoyed masel' aright," he tossed out, studying the coins. How do you talk to your...your best friend's...your goddaughter's...how do I talk to Annie about a night's lay? There was really no etiquette for it.

"Mm-hmm." Annalea sat down in front of the table, pulling the nightdress tight around her. "Suddenly becoming a gentleman, then, Tarq?"

What the hell. "Nice arse oan her, but tell yeh the truth, I felt I wis doin' all the work." His tone was too casual to be anything but a provocation. "Three hours I must ay been there, an' she spent a guid half ay thim jus' lyin' there. Or kneelin', or sittin', or -"

"Alright, alright." She laughed, idly rolling one of the rings around in her hand. "Well, if fucking a beautiful noblewoman to help rob her husband of a fortune is too much work for you, boss-"

"Tarq," he said, immediately, without even thinking of it. She lifted an eyebrow. "Jus' Tarquin, Annie. Wir oan vacation, are we no'?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "That we are." There was a pause, for some reason he couldn't even attempt to define, and then she smirked. "Anyway, I think it's about time you started holding up your end of this vacation." She turned back to the table, fingers glancing over the small spill of vast wealth. "I've brought in almost ten thousand crowns and seen an Earl of Stormwind get tossed on his arse in the mud, and I'm not even the one who walks through walls and picks the royal pockets."

Tarquin folded his arms over his narrow chest. "Haul' the now! Thit's go' the frightful ring ay challenge at it, Annie."

"Ten thousand crowns ring pretty bloody loud, ap Danwyrith." She turned back to him, dropping one of the rings to chime against the others on the table.

A slow smile cut its way through the thatch of Tarquin's beard. "Aright, lass. Yeh'd a lucky night oan yeh, but that wis a right pair ay idiots an' na mistake." He extended his fingers, the backs of his hands pressed together, and cracked his knuckles with a satisfying pop. "I'll shew yeh how the professionals work. An' meanwhilst, yeh kin...well, how d'yeh plan ta spend yir evenin'?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can find someone who'll while away the hours with me while you're hard at work." She tapped at the billfold. "And considering the amount of catching up you have to do, it'll have to be someone who doesn't mind... keeping me occupied for the better part of the night."

"Ah. So yir plannin' on findin' someone yeh kin practice yir knittin' with, then." He nodded gravely. "Luck wi' thit."

"No, not knitting. I'm better at embroidery. Lockpicking's not the only thing that requires a certain degree of dexterity." An impish grin curved along her lips; she peered at Tarquin from beneath her lashes. Her hands came up, poised as though there was an embroidery hoop in one and a needle in the other. Her right hand drew the imaginary needle down, through fabric that wasn't there, and back up again. Slowly, deliberately. Once, twice, the gesture changing just slightly to make her point. Then hoop and needle were abandoned back into the air, and those slender fingers returned to their search for errant hairpins.

Tarq shook his head ruefully. "Glad I dinna suggest yeh'd be playin' at the lute."

"That's a whole other method." At last, a crucial pin came free, the curls came cascading down. Anna breathed a contented sigh and rose. "Anyway. I'm going to disprove the notion of 'no rest for the wicked.' Shall I knock if you're not up and about by lunchtime?"

"Ayeh. A smoke an' I'm fir bed, too. G'night, Annie."

"'night, Tarq." She sauntered towards her bedroom. The door clicked closed behind her.

Tarquin rolled a cigarette and looked out over the harbor as he smoked, watching the fishing boats set out over the waves, out to bring in another day's haul for Booty Bay. His eyes fell on their own haul from the previous night, and he smiled.

Further things to consider, on a second warm night in Booty Bay.

-Fifty years on the sea, being celebrated on the decks of The Sceptre, said to be the last ship ever to chase The Widow's Lament before Roger Swellcrest disappeared.

-Two gilded invitations -- completely legitimate -- originally intended for one Raza Breakwater and guest, repurposed and professionally altered to display the names of the new attendees.

-One gentleman in dove grey, announced as Alaric Sotton, world traveller, mapmaker, his journey financed by a family windfall of indeterminate amount.

-One woman in emerald, announced as Miss Genevieve Henshawe, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the the figurehead on the prow of The Sceptre. Soon revealed to be the granddaughter of the artist's original inspiration for said carving.

-Three former captains of The Sceptre present, plus sundry other officers from her glorious past.

-One current quartermaster, dark of hair and blue of eye, finding his gaze drawn to Miss Henshawe whenever she appears at the corner of his vision.

-Five thousand crowns, the entry fee for those wishing to play in the evening's Stone Roses tournament.

-One son of Alfred Tremayne, named Victor, in Booty Bay to be certain his father's cargo is properly transferred to its next destination.

-Ten minutes for Alaric to convince Victor be his partner for the tournament, another seven to convince Victor to use the cargo as collateral for his entry fee.

-Eight men asking Miss Henshawe to dance over the course of the evening.

-Three men she dances with more than once: one sweet but forgetful former captain, who keeps calling her by his long-dead daughter's name; Master Sotton, who makes charming conversation about the widest array of topics; and most of all the quartermaster, who holds her a little closer each time.

-Two rounds of drinks sent to Sotton and Tremayne, compliments of the lady. The first met with a tip of the glass and a top o'the world wink from Sotton, the second downed quickly, with a murderous glower at the dwindling stack of chips by Sotton's hand.

-Thirteen hands of Stone Roses, every deal after the fourth increasingly in the House's favor.

-Four: the approximate number of minutes Victor Tremayne believes will be left to his life once he tells his father the cargo was lost in a card game.

-Seven thousand four hundred and twenty-two gold crowns in debt to the house at the time Miss Henshawe and the quartermaster retired to his chambers.

-Two decks to descend through, to quarters where the music and chatter of the party faded away, and the only sounds beyond the gentle lap of waves against the hull were two murmuring voices.

-One favor extracted from the unfortunate merchant, in hushed whispers before the final hand was dealt, to be determined and collected at a future date.

-Eight thousand eight hundred and sixty-four gold crowns tallied up by the house and paid in full by Master Sotton, to Tremayne's profuse thanks.

-Three wolf whistles, delivered by deckhands raising sails, on the occasion of the lady's departure.

---

The suite was dark when Annalea slipped inside, the last rays of moonlight throwing long shadows across the floor. She'd walked home barefoot, her shoes dangling from her hands. Earlier, they'd lent her height and elegance, and showed off her calves quite nicely when the dances made her dress flare. Now they fell to the ground with twin thunks, cast off and forgotten, her long satin gloves joining them in the heap. Anna sank onto the sofa with a groan.

"Thit a sign ay a guid night, then?" Tarquin's voice came from somewhere near the door.

"Fucking hell, Tarq!" Anna bolted upright. She had to have passed right by him, and never knew he was there. Once her heartbeat had slowed to a more manageable pace, she reached for a match and lit the lamp.

He leaned against the wall, still in his suit, though the jacket lay draped over a chair. When Anna's glower fixed on him, he spread his hands in a magician's ta-da. It elicited the laugh he was aiming for, and he deemed it safe enough to cross the room and settle down on the other end of the sofa. He eyed her, taking in the rumpled state of her dress and her tousled hair. "Wir I gi'en ta the sinful enterprise ay gamblin', I'd wager yeh had a successful eve."

Anna let her head drop onto the backrest. She might still have been a little drunk. "I saw your version of wagering. Last I saw, you were heading straight towards bankruptcy."

"Coin comes an' gangs as't wir the tides, as the poet said. Plenty ay ither ways ta come out ahead, Annie." From some hidden place, he produced a crown and started walking it across his knuckles. "I'd say I came out virra much ahead."

"Define 'very much.' Those dealers looked like they were eating you two for dinner."

"They did. An' thit wis the point. I wisna playin' agin' the house. I wis playin' agin' my partner." The rise and fall of his fingers slowed, and he placed a hand over his heart. "Lads the like ay Victor Tremayne alwis think thir immortal. Lose a bit here an' again, aye, but he kent thit the next deal would surely be in his favor. Or the next. Or failin' thit, the next. The boy stood ta lose a king's bloody ransom in cargo, but who wis there ta pull his unlucky arse out ay four thousand crowns in debt, but his equally unfortunate partner."

Anna raised her head, brow arched. "So how did he show his gratitude?

"He owes me a favor. Well, bein' specific, he owes Alaric Sotton a favor. But thit's jus' a matter ay havin' papers drawn up when we want ta call it in. Give Rosie Mathers somethin' ta do." He passed her a folded paper. The promise of the favor was written on the back of an invitation, Tremayne's signature writ large at the bottom.

"You think he's good for it? He'll honor it when you come to collect?"

Tarq shrugged, though the movement was more a threat than a dismissal. "If he tries hedgin', he'll no' be dealin' with Sotton anymore, will he the now?"

"No, no he won't." They shared conspiratorial grins, almost as though they hoped he would balk when the time came.

"So." Tarq bent and picked up one of her crumpled gloves. "I take it yir, ah, embroiderin' went well?"

Anna opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Color flushed her cheeks.

"Hah. Last night, yir askin' me fir details, but now the table's turned, yir shy?" He shook his head. "An' here I had Tremayne pegged fir most likely ta hedge."

He's right. Turnabout is fair play. Anna sat up and tucked her feet beneath her. "Not at all. We had a fine time belowdecks. You ever done it on a boat, Tarq? Easy enough to get used to when you're the one lying down, but when it's the other way around, takes a few minutes to get your sea legs. Or, sea knees, I suppose. But once that was sorted..."

Tarq snickered. "Yir sister told me yeh wir no' ta go runnin' off with any seafarin' men. Should I be tellin her yir defyin' her wishes, then?"

"Hardly. If I went with them, they'd put me to work right away, and they were getting ready to set sail. I'm still on vacation." She stretched, catlike. "And I suppose vacation involves sleeping at some point. What's on the menu for tomorrow?"

He folded the glove neatly over the back of the sofa with uncommon delicacy, looked over, and shrugged his shoulders. "We made air point. I wis thinkin' ay takin' the evenin' ta get proper blethered an' chase some skirts. Commence makin' a profit oan the next."

"Mmm." Annalea sighed deeply and pushed herself to her feet, weaving a little as she made her aching progress towards the bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder as she found the door. "And if the opportunity to rob some poor sot blind just dances in front of your eyes, will you listen to your better angels and stick to taking the night off?" Tarquin, still sitting on the couch, just slowly cocked his head and stared at her with an intensely focused brand of skepticism. She laughed wearily. "Me neither," she confessed, and walked into the bedroom, not bothering to close the door before she collapsed on the bed.

The skirt chasing started at noon. Or, perhaps more accurately, the skirt-and-breeches chasing started at noon.

They started with rum in their coffee at breakfast (which was really lunch), then moved out to the sundeck, where subsequent drinks all contained the same crucial ingredient, or other, equally inebriating ones. Anna fared better at sitting in the sun doing nothing than Tarq did, until she looked out from beneath the brim of her ridiculously floppy straw hat and pointed at a figure swaying her way along the docks.

"What about that one?" She waited until his eyes lit upon the woman, then reached for her drink and took a sip.

"Wha' about her?" Tarq frowned slightly. "Thir's promise, aye, but how kin yeh tell aught oan it all the wey o'er there?"

Anna shrugged. "The way she carries herself. That's a woman who knows she's being ogled. And likes it." The subject of their conversation stopped by a dockworker. The box she carried went to one cocked hip. The dockworker made no effort to hide his appreciation, and she didn't bother playing shy or offended.

"Huh." Tarquin sat in quiet contemplation as the dockworker's conversational gambit plummeted and sank, and the woman continued sashaying down the pier. Anna sipped her drink again, watching him watch the woman, until he finally looked back to his own glass of medicine. "Little challenge eno' at it."

"Some people just don't know how to relax," she muttered in mock disgust. "Hm, maybe you could climb in her window and fling her over the back of a horse while your brothers are stealing her father's cattle. Paint your face blue, trade in your clothes for a checked kilt and some bracelets..." She spared Tarquin an appraising glance, regretting it instantly. He was sitting between her and the sun.

"Well, m'game, Tarquin replied with equanimity, "but I dinna mind ta see Ulth an' Bric tryin' fir ta rustle cattle."

"Honest bandits the world over would take offense," Annalea agreed. They shared a tired laugh, and then Tarquin drew quiet when by all rights the next rejoinder ought to have shot out of his mouth. Annalea lifted her eyebrow.

"Takes a wee bit, in usual," he said in response to her wordless prompting, "fir ta put aside Giles an' Orvain when I hear yir brithers. Dinna even think ay thim this time." He smiled again with an odd and apparently completely sincere wistfulness. "Think I'm managin' t'outgrow the family. Worth anither drink, d'yeh no' think?"

"Guess so." Annalea's mouth tweaked into something more or less smile-shaped. She opened her mouth to speak, then filled it with more booze. Tarquin's eyes flickered over to her, but he didn't speak. They sat in a somewhat deeper silence for a moment, and then Tarquin lifted his arm (with noticeable effort) and pointed down the docks.

"See, thit lad's go' a rank oan 'im, Annie. A Knight-Captain if neith' my eyes nor his surcoat betray me." He grinned over at her. "Now what's a bloke doin' wearin' his milit'ry colors in Booty Bay, I ask yeh? Thit's a statement, which means in turn..."

"A challenge." Annie sighed theatrically and filled her glass. "Alright. I'll bore myself to sleep with too much relaxation anyway." She waited a couple seconds, and then smiled slyly. "And unless I'm missing something from here, he's gorgeous."

"If yeh say so."

"Oh, you tell me, Tarq, you noticed him first." The officer in question was strolling between shops on one of the ramshackle city's better-maintained docks, a plan subject to the interference of his naturally crisp gait. Tarquin snorted and hoisted his frame out of the chair it had sunk into, weaving like a shaky tentpole.

"So I did. I'll sally forth an' do first touch, then. See if thir's anythin' fir ta keep masel' int'rested while yir decoratin' the bay wi' new tapestries." He stretched and adjusted his tunic. "Cannifrey...Raynard, then, ay the Stormwind Clarion-Bugle. Young courier oan his vacation, kinna resist the chance oan a direct source fra' the front lines."

"Royce, I think," Annalea said, considering him. "Raynard sounds a bit North Corner. Royce is a newsman's sort of name."

"Cannifrey Royce it is. Mind ay some guid Bugle gossip, I'll need it fir second touch." Tarquin downed the last of his drink and turned to head inside and downstairs. "An' maybe think oan the possibility ay food ta float this." He made his way inside; by the time he was heading out the front door of the Bosun's Quarters, he had arranged his hair into a haphazard attempt at a professional queue and his face into a dog-eager smile of intention, and his gait was as energetic as it was unsteady. Annalea watched him catch up with the dark-haired knight, waving his arms and stuttering, and closed her eyes when the man slowed to speak to him. Idly, she wondered if Tarquin ever fished.

It took about fifteen minutes before they parted ways, and another five before Tarquin came sauntering back into the balcony. She knew something was afoot the moment he turned the corner, with an exaggeratedly casual smile on his face. She fancied she could actually see the muscles around his lips straining to keep a manic grin from breaking out. "So, d'you have a story, Master Royce?" She took another sip of rum, and nearly spat it out at the effusive tones that issued from his mouth.

"Oh absolutely, Miss Al'Cair! A, a positive third-pager just waiting between - just waiting only for pen to meet paper, sitting right here." He drew himself up grandly, hands clasped together behind his back. "And that is only for the now - the invitation I re, I have just received guarantees - dare I say it? Indeed I do; a bona-fide scoop!"

Annalea laughed. "The elusive scoop shows its face. Poor Cannifrey Royce. He'd be thrilled if he wasn't so imaginary." She tilted her glass in Tarquin's direction. "So what's this about an invitation?"

Tarquin dropped into his seat, the fretfully keen manner flowing away from him like water. "Annie, how wid yeh like some real sport oan this evenin'? A test ay both air facilities, fir na reward but the doin' ay it an' the 'ventual braggin' rights as issue thence." He frowned at his empty glass and stuck an arm up into the air, fingers snapping crisply.

"I thought a challenge was the whole point here, Tarq."

"Ayeh, but wait till yeh hear this yin." Tarquin then fell silent, as an attentive goblin in a well-starched shirt and brocaded vest replaced his glass with a fresh one. He'd taken to drinking some concoction of bourbon, ice, and crushed mint leaves, claiming it to be the kindest way a man could treat his teeth while still drinking himself into a pleasant stupor. He took a gulp, nodded approvingly to the waiter, and flipped him a thick silver coin that disappeared up the goblin's flared sleeve. When the waiter was gone, he leaned forward and continued. "Sir Oliver Balliard. Knight-Captain, ay the Second's cavalry. A self-made man, far's knights tend - earned his spurs at Ahn-Qiraj, an' his captain's pips out at Halaa."

"Very nice for him. If he's inviting us to Silithus, I've changed my mind - he's no longer gorgeous." Annalea's own tones had changed subtly - flattened, issuing from the nose, with crisp consonants and drawled vowels. She could have walked into any drawing room in Stormwind, if she sobered up.

"Widna bet oan't. Air mate Oliver spends most ay his days up Northrend wi' the Second, but he's oan leave an' vacation the now, fir ta tend ta the wants ay his lovely young wife, a Missus Elaine Balliard. Elaine bein' a woman ay refinement, intelligence, an' oan occasion - virra puir impulse control." His toothy grin showed itself for a bare moment before he filled his mouth with another gulp of whiskey and mint.

Annie blinked, her North Corner accent forgotten. "You didn't. When?"

"Uh, yeh recall thit mairnin back October we met in the Pig ay a mairnin', me lookin' a frightful fuckin' mess?" She nodded abruptly and took another drink, hoping she wasn't blushing too obviously - Tarquin wasn't the only one who had looked a mess that morning. "Well, anyro', she's here in the Bay, an' the pair ay thim's goin' ta some celebration fir Stormwind swells, durin' which the guid Captain will na doubt present stirrin' tales ay his exploits ta the north. All Cannifrey Royce needs do, as Oliver tells it, is present his proper press credentials at the door ta the Gilded Narwhal an' he an' a guest'll be free ta rub elbows wi' the rich an' idle."

"Hm." She thought it over, studying Tarquin. "So you fucked his wife a few months ago, and now he's inviting you, in a paper-thin disguise, to bring me to a very expensive party so I can try to fuck him."

"Disregardin' the poetry as kin be dredged fra' sich a confusion, ayeh, thit sums it up."

"Do you know if his wife admitted it to him?"

"Dinna ken."

"But she'll probably recognize you if you talk to her."

"S'mair'n likely."

"So I have to con him into bed without you, my ticket into the Narwhal, encountering his wife face-to-face."

"Sure eno'."

"And if she decides to call you out, and he causes a scene, this is exactly the kind of thing that will get us in trouble with Raza Breakwater."

"Oh, thit's bloody certain."

Annalea leaned back in her seat, hands folded before her, staring at Tarquin through the pleasant haze of rum and trouble. He slowly lifted an eyebrow, and after what she felt was an appropriately long silence to the making of a decision that she'd settled on some time ago, she offered a feline smile. "So where are we going to get a Clarion-Bugle press pass?"

Tarquin actually hesitated a moment before grinning and speaking, as if he hadn't been certain of her answer. Maybe he wasn't, at that. "I wis thinkin' yeh might whip yin up fir me."

"Pft. Make me sober up." She shoved her rum away with a heavy sigh. "I'll need to find calligrapher's supplies, and I think the Bugle uses bronze etching. Oh, and alchemical paste, for the Fitzhoward signet."

"Shite's a purse an' a half. What's wrong wi' wax?"

"If you think you can draw a hawk in a laurel wreath in a dollop of hot wax before it dries, Tarq, then you can keep the money for the alchemical paste." She smiled sweetly and stood up, weaving only slightly. "Until then, we'll do it my way."

The northman tossed back the last of his mint julep, rose to his feet, and bowed flamboyantly. "I shall, as ever, be guided by your expertise, Miss..."

"...good question." She frowned and pursed her lips as the pair of criminals paced away from the table. "Help me decide who I am, Master Royce, and maybe one of us will remember it."

The Gilded Narwhal was every member of upper-crust society's dream. That is, if said members of society were three feet tall and green, and had never so much as set foot into the parlors of Stormwind's Great Houses. The place was decorated, instead, in a way its proprieters imagined a woman of fine breeding would lay out her home: every surface that could be gilded, was; the hard edges of the over-shellacked furniture were softened by an overabundance of mageweave, so much that the edges of the tablecloths and drapes pooled in shimmering heaps on the floor. Huge mirrors dominated the walls, allowing passers-by every opportunity to admire themselves or their companions. Great, gaudy glass jewels bedecked their frames, imitating rubies and emeralds and sapphires. Apparently, the goblins also believed that humans preferred the subjects of their paintings to be not only unclothed, but also posed in sundry scandalous positions.

Cannifrey Royce and Violetta Danville arrived fashionably late. To their credit, they were unfazed by the art -- they'd seen far more shocking displays on rowdier nights at the Pig. "And worse paintings, too," murmured "Violetta," drawing a low chuckle from her companion, who looked shabbily genteel as only a Stormwind newsman should. She'd had to talk him out of actually staining his fingers with printers' ink to complete his disguise. Instead, he carried a notebook tucked into his belt alongside a pen with an oversized quill.

Luckily, the imitating stopped with the decor. They'd imported a chef from Stormwind, and the delicacies pouring forth out of the kitchen (on garnet-encrusted platters, of course) tasted as wonderful as they looked. "Right," said Anna, pretending to check her lipstick in a mirror, "if they offer you the caviar, pretend to be flattered. Newspapermen don't usually get--"

Tarq gave her a full dose of Cannifrey, face slightly agog, lips moving in supplication.

"...nevermind. You know what you're about." A flicker of movement caught her eye and she spun, fixing on the man on the other side of the room. "Oh, he's even better close up."

Oliver Balliard had elected to wear his dress uniform to the festivities, and, judging by Anna's sudden grin, it was a smart choice. Knots of rank adorned his shoulders. The Lion of Stormwind was embroidered around the cuffs of his pale blue surcoat, though Oliver had capitulated to the southern heat enough to leave his buttons undone. He stood like a soldier despite the revelry around him. It gave everyone a better view of his face, since his chin was tilted just slightly up towards the lamps. His auburn hair was just beginning to grow out of its latetst close cropping. He had the high forehead and slightly upturned nose Anna usually associated with one of Stormwind's lesser Houses -- Campbell, perhaps -- and his straight, white teeth flashed when he laughed.

As magnetic as he seemed, it wasn't Oliver Balliard holding court with the small knot of partygoers clustered around him; the tall, honey-haired woman at his side clearly had command of the conversation. "An' are they no' just the portrait ay marital fuckin' bliss?" It was a little jarring, hearing Tarquin's voice, pitched low, coming from Cannifrey Royce's mouth. He already had the notebook and quill out, ready to jot down anything newsworthy.

"Nearly so." Anna slipped into her North Corner accent and flagged down a passing tray of canapes. "Though, look how they're standing. Not touching, almost like they're playing their parts." As she selected a tiny pastry with one satin-gloved finger, the knot of the Balliards' admirers broke up and drifted in their separate directions. The couple didn't stay together for long. Elaine gave her husband a perfunctory pat on the arm and disappeared deeper into the room, waving at an acquaintance before she was two steps out.

Which left Oliver on his own, sipping at his champagne.

"Best get ta work, then," said Tarq. The North dropped from his voice as he pointed with the quill. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Danville, I spy someone I simply must see about a quote."

The game was on.

---

Things to consider, on a third warm night in Booty Bay:

-Three women, approaching the suddenly solitary Oliver Balliard at the same time.

-Eight and a half minutes of conversation, during which two of the aforementioned women are proven to be no match for the third in the categories of wit, humor, and cleverness.

-Two new glasses of champagne, ordered upon the tedious ladies' departure.

-Eleven young men and women, carrying around trays of hors d'oeuvres, doubling as occasional cover for Cannifrey Royce.

-Forty-seven, the number of minutes before Balliard finally succumbed to the heat and removed his surcoat.

-Five seconds of gentle pressure from Miss Danville's satin-covered fingertips upon Balliard's newly-exposed wrist, delivered with a smile and a promise to chat more throughout the evening.

-Seven Stormwind ladies and gentlemen of note, who answered Cannifrey Royce's barely newsworthy inquiries and gave him somewhere to busy himself in the far corners.

-Three drinks, sent to Sir Balliard with Miss Danville's compliments.

-One white lily, stolen from a vase and tucked behind Miss Danville's ear in passing by an almost-shy Sir Balliard, worn for the rest of the night.

-Two, the number of times Cannifrey Royce had to hide his face behind his ridiculously oversized quill when the crowd left nothing between himself and Elaine Balliard.

-Twenty-eight feet between Elaine Balliard and Oliver Balliard, the former's line of sight broken by the wall of an alcove.

-One hundred nineteen seconds between the time Oliver Balliard seated himself in the alcove and Miss Danville joined him.

-Twenty-seven years, the time that that a Master Osric Feltenborg has worked as a newsman in Stormwind (or abroad), during which he has never met or heard of a Cannifrey Royce.

-Four kisses, their initiators indeterminate, before the alcove must be abandoned and the party returned to.

-Twelve, the number of heartbeats, or perhaps eyeblinks, it takes for Elaine Balliard to realize her husband is leaving with another woman on his arm. Conicidentally, also the number of steps between said parties.

He had to admit, Elaine Balliard looked absolutely lovely that evening - and never moreso than how, her face luminescent with rage and shame. The room at large had yet to notice Sir Oliver's hasty exit, but they surely would if his wife stormed after him and "Violetta Danville" demanding an explanation, or simply acting to damage the smaller woman's demure smile. Social indignity and personal pride warred for several seconds on her scarlet face before the tall woman, no shrinking violet she, strode towards the door gripping her empty wineglass like weaponry. Very much like that, in fact. Cannifrey Royce stepped out from behind one of the ridiculously ornate floral arrangements and glided towards the door, where Elaine's determined passage thankfully came to a halt - she quite possibly could have bowled him over, the state she was in.

"Lady Balliard!" He smiled effusively, quill brandished high. "What a fortunate turn, for the both of us." She just stared, the contours of her able and active mind submerged beneath seething rage, and he nattered on. "Cannifrey Royce, of the Clarion-Bugle. Assigned, by the grace of the Light, for a feature on how the fierce and ravishing ladies of Stormwind contend with the absence of their soldiering husbands, and in fact come to eclipse them in the public sphere." And there it was, her face going from red to white as recognition sank in. "Or perhaps," Tarquin added, arching an eyebrow, his voice still clipped and rounded and trimmed to match the shape of a fictional newsman's life, "you'd prefer to leave your private business private."

It was to Tarquin's fortune that fear and anger stripped the grace from Elaine Balliard's frame, rather than enhancing hit, or he wouldn't have managed to arrest her arm at the wrist as the crystal wineglass hurtled towards the side of his head. "None ay thit, now," he said quietly. "Here fir the party, same as yirself, an' I think we need a wee chat. Then yeh'll ha' chance ta do yir damage, an' I'll let it pass as earned." He carefully released his grip, keeping the pads of his fingertips pressed to her skin as warning and insurance. She was still considering it, but her eyes flickered to the side and she let her arm rest. Tarquin cocked his head and turned to confront the impressive spectre of a southron gentleman in the twilight of his years, with a blustering cloud of white hair combed into submission to frame a great hawkish nose and lean face lightly dotted with pox scars. This worthy was wearing a sleek blue jacket belted twice about a white doublet and goldenrod cravat, the sum of which could probably have paid for the entirety of the night's serving staff.

"Lady Elaine Balliard," said the old man, his voice weighty with all sort of important and meaningful undertones. "A pleasure, even on a night contracted to be pleasant." He took her unresisting hand and kissed it, and then fixed steely eyes on Tarquin, who had adopted a guarded smile. "And a...Master Royce, is it?"

Tarquin studied Balliard out of the corner of his eyes. She was still silent, boiling in her skin, but she either recognized the old man or felt he looked important enough that she ought to - meaning he might as well do the same. "Cannifrey Royce, sirrah, of the Clarion-Bugle. Sent to the Bay for my sins, only to assume them absolved, by the company I find myself in." He dipped his head towards the stone-faced woman who had somehow ended up at his side.

"For your sins." The spectre turned the words over in his mouth. "And tell me, Master Royce, have you led an uncommonly sinful life?"

"I wasn't aware of your ties to the Cathedral, sir." Tarquin laughed nervously, without much effort. Who the fuck are you, coffin-dodger?

"I ask," the man continued with a pained-looking smile, "Because no sins of yours have ever come to my notice. No activities at all, in fact, Master Royce. And that strikes me as an unlikelihood worthy of my notice, and certainly of yours, judging by your profession." One eyebrow went up, in a way that reminded Tarquin uncomfortably of his father. "If I judge correctly, of course."

He expects to know a newsman by name, he's here at this fucking party... Later, he would whisper a prayer to the Old Father for the timely arrival of a faint breeze, provoked by the door opening, that stirred the old man's barely-tamed hair and enticed a few strands to spring out around his head. With his mane as white and bushy as it would be on his off-hours, the man would be the spitting image of a caricature featured often in the editorial comic of Cannifrey Royce's theoretical employers. Meaning... "Well, Master Feltenborg, who'd be a better judge than you?" Tarquin smiled wide, even as his brain worked feverishly and the situation inched closer to incipient violence.

Osric Feltenborg, Editor-In-Chief of the Stormwind Times, curled his knuckles around his ivory walking stick and frowned severely, a frown guaranteed to make a hungry young reporter like the unfortunate Cannifrey Royce quake for his future in the business. Especially if he was about to be exposed as a figment of the imagination. "Nobody. Nobody at all. Which means that since I have never heard of a Cannifrey Royce, employed by the tawdry Clarion, the shrill Bugle, or that abomination they have spawned together, then nobody has. And if nobody has ever heard of you, Master Royce -"

"Alright, mate." The voice rolled out of his mouth at a slant, sour with the cant of the docks and the alleys, quiet enough to pass beneath the bustle of the room as the drunks grew drunker and the veneer of civilization slipped. "You gone and proved you're a clever one, if I was dumb a fuck enough to doubt. Now stow your bloody lip, if you give half a dried turd for those colors you sport, see?"

The old man looked taken aback. Not a lot of people, Tarquin was willing to wager, had talked to Osric Feltenborg that way. "Who are - Lady Balliard, tell me who this man is."

She looked about ready to, before Tarquin interposed himself again. "Never mind the lady. You leave her out, Ozzy, and leave her out your scrivening too. She's a decent woman, and fuck knows I meet few women gettin' anywhere near decent on the job," He chuckled coarsely, and let Royce's bright voice resurface. "Judging by my profession, which I should hope you do judge correctly."

He was quick, Feltenborg; his heavy white eyebrows drew down and his knuckles tightened on his case. "Your profession...do you claim to be Stormwind Intelligence, man?" Not much gets up a proper newsman's arse more than a pack signed over to the keeping of secrets.

"There's a bright fucking candle, mate, and no mistake." He grinned cheerily. "Now listen close, the both o' youse. Boss sent me down on account there's activity here in the Bay. One o' the swells circulatin' the room, stuffin' hisself with free shrimp and pricey wine, is a career criminal been on the list some fuckin' time." He stepped closer, laying a firm hand on Feltenborg's shoulder, letting the lies unspool and keeping a weather eye on Elaine Balliard. "I do my job right, me an' the boys I got here will flush the bastard out and lock him up before sunrise. That's assumin' no dumb shit, beggin' pardon from the both o' youse, fucks the pooch and spooks my man. Which case..." He turned slightly towards Elaine, meeting her eyes. "He's no fuckin' card sharp, this dog, but a black-hearted devil to make Clay Vagos piss himself. He smells it going bad and can't fade with the wind, he will not hesitate to make his way out in blood. And lettin' that happen is definitely not my fuckin' job."

Elaine looked back at him, her eyes widening fractionally, chin lifted. "That's the last thing we'd want, sir," she said calmly, just the hint of a shake in her throat. Message delivered. Tarquin wondered idly just how much evil she believed him capable of. He looked back to Osric Feltenborg, who watched him with flaring nostrils.

"This...you will excuse my saying, sir, that this is something of an incredible story." The old newsman spoke quietly to match. "Any man, perhaps the very criminal you describe, could claim to be acting in the interests of SI:7 as a cover to their own interests. I have a duty to my king and his people." Osric's chin went up, revealing some unsightly wattles that somewhat undercut his graven dignity. "I will give you one try before I speak to the guards. Use violence if you must; I will not flinch. Lady Balliard, please step away."

Be one hell of a fucking headline, it would. Especially if any of Shaw's lads are here. And just like that, it leaped into his head, as ungovernable a beast as any of his best ideas. He smiled broadly and shifted his arm, palming a wrist knife in case the dice came up singles. "Now Master Feltenborg. Why in hell would I spill your blood, when you could just go an' ask your sources - and I know you got 'em - about James Sullivan?"

It struck home; he didn't know much about the Service agent bedeviling the Riders, but enough to know that it'd take the likes of Osric Feltenborg just to know of the man's existence. The old man's eyes widened, and his voice rose slightly. "You are -?" Ride it, then.

"Keep your fucking voice down, or might I could change my mind, mate." Tarquin smiled sunnily, speaking lightly and casually and nearly devoid of accent while his eyes bored into the formerly imperious gentleman. "No hint of my name in your rag. You don't report for three days, till we got the man fitted for a noose and singing on his compatriots. And you stay out of my way like I've got the fucking plague, or you'll wish you had caught it." He slipped the knife back up his sleeve, showing a hint of teeth in his smile while Osric shrunk and aged before his eyes. "You understand, then wish me a very good evening and go eat some fucking shrimp."

"Master S - sir, I must..." Feltenborg made a valiant effort to rally himself. "In the name of the freedom all of the Light's children enjoy, surely you understand that I have a duty to my readers and to the truth."

"What's the matter, Master Feltenborg?" He leaned in, smiling big and broad. "Not fond of shrimp? Might be I can find you a steak. Nice and rare and bloody." He waited while the newsman came to terms with a world that he certainly had imagined had no sway on him, then patted Feltenborg's shoulder. "Truth's a hard bitch to please. Don't waste your time, huh?" His grip tightened. "Get out of my fucking road, and thank the Light you didn't interfere with my mission."

Osric Feltenborg went, looking twenty years older than he had when he'd confronted Cannifrey Royce just a few minutes past. Tarquin checked around the room, but nobody had taken much note of the conversation. At least, he didn't see anyone who had. He made one last circuit of the room with his eyes, and then, satisfied, turned back to Elaine Balliard, who was watching him with an all-too-familiar mix of admiration, wariness, and a contempt held as much for herself as him. "Well," he said, in Cannifrey Royce's voice, "Now that that's settled, how about an interview?"

She'd learned, over the years, to sense the exact moment a man felt regret. It was different from each to each, of course -- sometimes it was a sharp intake of breath, others a sudden pause in the tracing of her arm or the twining of a lock of her hair. Arms that moments before had encircled her in the languid, drowsy manner of a satisfied lover suddenly went stiff and awkward as her companion realized he'd have to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs and sheets and slink out of the room. Preferably without her noticing.

It wasn't all of them, not even most of them. But all it took was a handful of humiliation to make her wary of the rest. So Annalea watched for the signs, even as she drifted off to sleep. That way if she caught it early enough, she could to be the one to leave. It saved her from hearing the speeches, the it's-not-you-it's-me.

Oliver Balliard should have been so easy to read. Hooking him had been child's play. He'd invited her to leave the party with him, convinced it was his own idea, and the remainder of the night clicked into place like the tumblers of a lock beneath Tarquin's picks.

There was nothing stupid about the man. You didn't gain a command with the Second if you were dim. He knew of his wife's indiscretions, of the humiliation it would bring her to be seen leaving the party with another woman on his arm. Such things were hardly topics for polite conversation -- let alone as pillow talk with the woman you'd chosen to help you break your marriage vows -- but they danced around it in the careful way of the well-bred and made themselves understood. Anna listened for a change in his tone as the circles of their conversation grew tighter and tighter, until they were almost, almost, speaking plainly.

But Oliver's tone remained even, his arm looped casually around her shoulders, and when he laughed, it was genuine. Perhaps it was those things, or the pleasant tingle of champagne, or the warm breeze off the sea, or a little of each, but Annalea fell asleep with her guard down.



She woke up to the sounds of the gulls in a room bright with sunlight. She didn't have to open her eyes to know she was alone in the bed; the sheets beneath her outstretched hand were cool. It's better this way. No awkward farewells. When she opened her eyes, though, Oliver was still there, watching her from the chair beside the bed. He'd dressed already and, if she wasn't mistaken, had even had time to shave while she slept.

Anna pushed herself up on her elbows and grinned despite the stone settling in the pit of her stomach. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage."

His eyes dropped to her chest for the briefest flicker. When they returned to her face, she saw what she ought to have been watching for all along: his conscience had kicked in at last. "Miss Danville, I..."

"What happened to 'Violetta?'"

He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, a gesture that looked awkward from a man wearing a Knight-Captain's uniform. "I've behaved improperly. What we did... It doesn't matter what Elaine's done. I've dishonored you both."

It was hard not to roll her eyes. Harder still to fight the flush of shame that threatened to creep into her cheeks. Bluntness made for the best defense. "Your wife's been fucking other men, Oliver. She's dishonored herself."

"I understand that. But..." He reached for her hand, the gesture sweet and earnest. She let him take it. "What she did was wrong. What we did was, too. But what good does getting even do? It doesn't fix my marriage. It doesn't tell me what's making her so unhappy with me that she takes other men to her bed."

Funny, how that never occurs to them until after the fucking. The sharp rebuke rose to her lips, but she stayed silent and let her grey eyes say it instead.

It didn't take him long to interpret. "I'm... I'm sorry, Miss Danville. I have to go see my wife." He rose from his chair, uncertain how to say goodbye. Anna let him squirm. "The room is paid for," he said at last. "You can take your time--"

"Get out."

Oliver hovered a moment longer, looking wounded and chastened, but if there were any words that could smooth things over he didn't find them. The sounds of ocean and gulls swelled and receded as he opened the door and disappeared into the bright Booty Bay morning, leaving Anna alone.



The docks were unusually subdued for such a fine day. The midday heat had yet to rise to its near-oppressive levels. Every other morning of their stay, vacationers had been up and about by now, strolling along the boardwalks or sitting out on their patios enjoying early breakfasts and the first of many drinks. Today, though, Anna strolled through a ghost town. The few people who were out gathered in small knots, holding strained conversations in hushed voices. The goblin vendors watched them warily, and Anna realized what else was missing from her surroundings: usually, the vendors shouted over one another, competing for business. Now they only murmured token greetings as she passed.

Anna wondered who'd died. If someone knifed Raza Breakwater, Tarq and I are going to have trouble. She ambled over to one of the stalls, led as much by curiosity as the gnawing in her belly. The goblin sat quietly on his stool while she selected an assortment of muffins. No small talk, no attempts to upsell her. He simply sat there, watching her pick out breakfast for herself and Tarq.

"That'll be ten coppers." It was a fair price, less than half of what he'd tried charging for them the day before. A goblin who doesn't want to haggle? This has to be dire.

"All right. What the hell's going on here?" She kept her voice pitched low as he placed the muffins in a paper sack and passed it over to her. The sun glinted off her silver coin as she pressed it into his small green hand.

"Lady, if you don't know, I don't think ol' Zeb here's the one who oughtta tell ya." The coin disappeared into his pocket despite the hedging.

"Try me."

He glanced over at a cluster of humans not too far away. "Maybe you should ask them inst--" He let out a muted squawk as Anna's hand shot out and seized one of the hoops in his ear.

"I can pull them out one by one until you talk. Ever had an earring ripped out? It fucking hurts." Shadows gathered at her fingertips. "And I can make it even worse."

"Awright, awright! Jeez, lady, keep your shirt on, I'll tell you!" He waited until she let him go, then retreated out of arm's reach and rubbed at his earlobe. "You know that one guy who went fuckin' bugshit a few years back? Used to be all preachy an' shit, then decided we were all better off eatin' dirt? They called him the Wordweaver or somethin' like that."

All the warmth leached out of the morning. "Uthas."

"Yeh. Him. I was here the day he got his ass knocked into the water by that troll. Standin' right fuckin' here, selling the same fuckin' muffins, while everyone ran around all shocked that someone decided to off the mouthy fucker. Bet they all wish the troll'd done a proper job of it now, don't they?" He looked out over the water and grunted, as though it was Uthas' fault he hadn't moved up in the world.

"What about him? What happened?"

Zeb leaned forward as she spoke, nodding at something in her tone. "Lady, you really ain't gonna like it. You got a City accent. But awright. The crazy fucker apparently got sick o' bein' held in the Stocks. Whole slew of his creepy fuckin' Unblinking Eye tromped into Stormwind yesterday an' broke his ass out. Carnage all over the place while they left, killin' anyone who got in their way. There were riots an' fire and someone blew up the Mage Tower. An' the Cathedral. The whole city's probably burned to the ground by now." He closed his eyes and cringed when he was done, like Anna might start yanking out earrings anyway. But the pain didn't come. He popped his eyes open cautiously, ready to slam them closed again at a second's notice.

Anna stood there, stunned, the goblin already forgotten. She swayed a moment, then whispered "Threnny," and took off, her boots thumping on the planks as she sprinted for the Bosun's Quarters.



Tarquin heard Annalea coming long before she burst through the door. Early enough, in fact, to have his knives at the ready and to decide where he'd like to be standing, should she be bringing a fight along with her. He settled on the arm of the couch, seating himself so he could see both the main door and the one that led to their balcony, ready to throw the blade at whoever might follow behind Annie. While her key rattled in the lock, he calculated the angle he ought to throw at, taking into account her height and the likely position of her pursuant's throat.

But when the door swung open, Annalea was alone. She barely nodded to him as she pelted towards her bedroom, a look of dread on her face.

Not fear. Panic.

Tarq followed in her wake, the sounds of her rummaging through drawers drifting out to him. He entered the room just in time to see her light upon her buzzbox, her fingers scrabbling frantically at its buttons. She didn't turn as he leaned against the doorframe, frowning.

"Threnny? Threnny, answer me." Silence greeted her and she sank to the bed, struggling against tears.

"Annie? The fuck is it, then?" She didn't answer; his face darkened and his hand slipped to his knife. "Did Balliard..."

That caught her attention. She stopped stabbing at the buttons and shook her head. "No. No, he went back to his wife an hour ago. Tarq, they're saying..." Her throat clicked when she swallowed. "They're saying Uthas broke out of the Stocks last night, and that Stormwind's burning."

Tarquin's fingers tightened on the hilt of his dagger. "Bloody piss. Where'd yeh ha' thit frae?" He stepped the rest of the way into the room, shaking his head in an unconvincing display of skepticism. "Try anither yin, Annie. Maybe she's just switched off."

Before she could, the channel crackled to life. But it wasn't Threnn's voice coming out of it.

"Oi." That one syllable was laced with exhaustion and... something else. Sorrow?

Anna made a small, strangled sound. Tarq's hand came down on her shoulder, heavy and reassuring. "Steady oan, Annie."

She nodded and thumbed the switch. "Bricu? Where's Threnny? Why are you answering her frequency?"

"Sleepin'. She took a late watch. Now she's downstairs with Naiara an' yer parents. An' the Langstons an' half the Black an' Red. Long fuckin' night. The two o'yeh heard?"

She relaxed a bit under Tarq's palm. Her family was safe. "Only a little. They said his people broke him out and the city's gone to hell."

There was a derisive snort on the other end, and the sound of a match flaring. "'s fuckin' ballacks. They didn't break him out. The judge fuckin' pardoned him. Put him under the same amnesty they gave the Ebons, an' let 'im walk. His knights got 'im the fuck out, but people'd gathered ta see a hangin'. Not a..." Bricu laughed, a sound that did his surname proud. "Not a fuckin' absolution."

Anna glanced up at Tarq and mimed lifting a flask to her lips. She pointed at the box and raised a questioning brow.

"They got 'im out. No fuckin' clue where they took 'im. We were too busy gettin' back ta yer parents' shop an' movin' everyone ta the Pig ta stay an' watch."

Tarq shook his head. "Nah. Be the last fir ta blame him, but." He took the box from her and raised his voice. "Bric? The fuck's goin' oan there now? The lot aright?"

"Aye. They've got the Guard patrollin' now. It's been quiet the last couple o'hours."

Tarq sank down beside her. "An' wir all accounted fir??"

"Aye. We won't be hangin' any more tabards next ta Jolly's. Not yet."

"Barry, then. We oughtay be able ta end the business here quicklike. Be back in Stormwind by nightfall, like as no'." He saw the look on Anna's face and pre-empted both herself and Bricu. "Shaw'll nivir fuckin' find me, an' as fir his fuckin' watchdog Sullivan, I've ha' mind ta -"

"No."

Tarq stopped midsentence and glared at the box. "Gave o'er the Black an' Red t'yirself, Bric," he nearly sneered, "But I dinna recall as thit includes runnin' me."

"It's not an order. But it's not fuckin' safe here yet, an' there's nothin' ta be done right now. Yeh asked me ta do a job, I'm fuckin' well doin' it. Yeh wanna help? Stay where yeh are so me an' Threnny have two less people ta worry about. Yeh can come back ta town an' tweak Shaw's nose in a couple o'days. Yeh can come back an' kiss him fer all I care. Just. Not. Yet."

The silence stretched, the two Northmen attempting to wait one another out. Anna sat, watching Tarq's scowl grow deeper and deeper. He slammed the buzzbox down on his knee. "Fuck. Fuck. Aright, fine. We've a few mair days here under Breakwater's guid graces. But the second it's clear, yeh fuckin' tell me."

"First thing I'll do."

"An' if anythin' happens -- if yin ay Shaw's cunts so much's goes shoppin' at the Thread, or thit Dannis bint comes lookin' ta write anyin' up fir, fir fuckin' lookin' like a punter might incline t'wards the criminal someday, yeh buzz."

"Tarq, I will."

"Aright. Fuckin' aright. Hie yeh back ta Threnny an' my godsdaughter, then." He slumped, offering Annalea a weak smile. "An' keep the animals in line, ayeh?"

"Done an' done. Annie, I'll give Threnny an' yer parents yer love."

Tarquin let her have the box back. "And kiss Naiara for me," she added.

Then he switched off, and the two of them sat, brooding, while the rest of Booty Bay awoke to the news.