35 Fall 518
Caspian broods over a warming mug of ale alone, at a low table in a far corner of the Silver Sliver Tavern.
It’s been ten days since he’d last seen his sister Taalviel. Half-sister, he revises to himself, though he doubts whether the reduction of the designation would have in turn diminished the patchwork heap of their relationship over the years. Nor would a more frequent conferment, on his part, of the full term upon her have augmented it.
In any case he’s not seen her, and good riddance, this last sentiment punctuated by a sip of his ale he means to be victorious, but has only as tepid an effect as its own temperature.
Frustrating, isn’t it, that her unexpected and entirely unwanted presence has even soured drinking for him.
Who in the world was she, of all people, to barge suddenly back into his life and shine a light on what he was or wasn’t doing for a living?
On top of all of it, her timing had been uncanny. Unseemly. Only the night before she’d arrived, he’d been cut by both of his patrons, who had shown their appreciations for his talents in subterfuge and flattery in the form of mizas.
With a sigh, another sip. Even more of a labor than the last. There was a certainly not-so-inconsiderable sum of money he’d manage to squirrel away, but the clock of everything was ticking, and he was a creature who’d over the years developed shiny tastes, which he intended to cultivate into expensive habits.
But where would he find the new means to sustain them?
Compulsively, he taps out quick triplets against the rim of his drink, his brooding threatening to turn into his third sulk of the day. One sunny day over a season past, he’d dropped a handkerchief in a market square, and a passing gust had threatened to send it sailing across the platforms and directly into a proximal bend of the canals. Harrel, in his boisterous gallantry, had swept into Caspian’s life then, snatching the handkerchief out of the air and handing it back to him with a flourish, which had been accompanied with an appropriate amount of stumbling breathlessness. Their social collision had happened in front of a produce stand, if Caspian remembers right- which on their dark, lovely scrabble of an island, was as good as a field of wildflowers. Harrel had invited him out for dinner and a drink that night, and after only one glass of wine Caspian had fairly foolishly decided that his touch for larceny was a way he could flourish back.
He ended up, somehow, being entirely right about that.
From there – from the start – their relationship took on new shades, Caspian being asked to steal for Harrel’s amusement. It was all easy enough at first, the dangling trinkets in the shops they wandered into, intricately braided desserts on bakers’ displays, crystalline apothecary’s vials- all effective gilt feathers for his felt caps, and things that Caspian would probably have covertly shifted into his possession in his own time. It progressed to far more personal spaces when Harrel started keeping him by his side at the lavish parties he threw every other fortnight, sometimes two nights in a row if it suited him, and at these escapades he decided it very droll if Caspian lifted odd bits and bobs from his guests. A wreath of lace, a snip of satin, a length of leather stays. Once, even, a lock of hair. All this Caspian would bring back to Harrel with a slink and a smirk, and in return Harrel would pepper him with affection. And gold. The quantifiably jocose arrangement had suited Caspian just fine - and then Harrel began asking for rummaging through the ledgers in his father’s study, and tracking the chimes for his comings and goings.
The whole thing was good while it lasted – but now, how to begin again?
Another collection of triplet patterns against his drink, erratic taps to the untrained ear but pleasingly ascending flights of fourths in Caspian’s memory. He had, out of habit, already taken stock of the full population of patrons also in the tavern. Not being the most illustrious of locales, he’s not so sure that anyone here will prove to hold something for him to gain.
Another day, maybe, to another quadrant that isn’t across the street from where he lives, a quiet trip far enough away by Ravosala?
The ale grows worse by the minute, the semi-recent encounter with Taalviel to blame. His stomach grumbles suddenly – one of the arduous joys of being alive – just as a barmaid plunks an enticingly steaming bowl of fish stew before him, a loaf half-submerged in the center for good measure.
“I didn’t order anything,” Caspian protests, even as his instinctively leans towards it.
“’Course not. He did,” she replies, nodding towards a blonde man who’s waving at Caspian from a stool at the bar.
She hurries away to attend to her other tables, leaving Caspian to cross his arms and assess the stranger alone.
It’s been longer than Caspian likes since he’s been treated to this hearty of a meal.
Caution be damned, then. He uncrosses his arms and breaks his bread, inclining his head in invitation.
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WC: 879