By the time Nov made his stealthy exit from the scene of murder, went to fetch Maggie, and returned to Tinnie's room with the nervous maid in tow to look after Dina, he was no where closer to solving the mystery. The only clue he had now was some fellow named Gavin, who may or may not be a real dangerous piece of work. He could have been another Daggerhand, or a whore, or who even knew. Whoever he was, the name was their only lead.
Speaking of which, where was his sticky fingered accomplice?
"Dina," Nov murmured, letting the child wrap her stubby fingers around his. "Did my friend, the pretty lady from before, ever come back? Did you see her at all?"
Dina shook her messy brown head. An uneasy feeling uncoiled in the cook's stomach.
He stood up and looked at the unassuming but steadfast maid. "Maggie, watch over Dina while I'm gone. If things seem like they might get hairy, hide with her in the cupboard. She knows how to stay quiet."
The girl nodded violently and bent to sweep her charge onto the bed. As Maggie began to play in hushed tones with the toddler, Nov set his mouth to a grim line and closed the door behind him. It was only a matter of time before Evy woke up, or some unfortunate staff beat her to the punch. When she did, all hell would break loose. They would begin to dig for answers, and the first person they'd look for was him. Since he was now, for better or worse, linked to both Dina and Maggie, the two girls were in serious danger. He needed to find Arlana, get all three females out of this carnival house, and track down the man named Gavin.
Nov knew his way around the brothel better than he cared to admit. In less than a chime he was standing in front of Big Berta's room, arms crossed and caustic gaze settled on the scantily clad form of the Domina herself. Pale flesh oozed between strips of slick, black leather that left nothing to the imagination.
"I don't even want to know," the cook growled. "Just get out of my way."
Berta might have been a professional dominatrix, but she was far from stupid. Though it cost her a good amount of pride as she ground her teeth and stepped away from the door, the whore knew she was outmatched. Her skill lay in whips and chains and tempered doses of pain, not the kind of raw violence Noven could promise.
The mercenary went for the door. Then he stopped just a hair's breadth away, eyes narrowing at the strange expression on Berta's face. She looked equal parts wolfish, guilty, and indignant.
Nov knew that look. Either Berta had committed the incredibly stupid and unlikely mistake of locking herself out of her own quarters, or she had been convinced through certain means to lend the room to another. The whores of Happy Endings did this often enough, especially for deals of shadier natures.
Petching shyke, Nov realized in that instant. Arlana.
He backed up until his back was against the other end of the hall. Nov glared at Berta, who glared back as if to say "your funeral." Then the merc charged forward, shoulders first, and mowed down the flimsy door with sheer, brute force.
Nov burst into the room through an explosion of noise, wood chips, and pieces of what used to be Berta's locks. He took one good look at the scene momentarily frozen before him. Arlana, one arm chained to the table behind her, her expression dire. In front of her, a shirtless boy of a whore with a blade in his hand and bewildered, stupefied disbelief written all over his perfectly symmetrical face.
Too symmetrical, the cook thought to himself. Then he grabbed the ilk's hand, twisted it with a single, sharp motion that sent the blade clattering uselessly to the floor, and punched the whore in the face with his own knuckles.
Nov was rather fond of this move. He had invented it all on his own, cross breeding it with other tricks and tactics he had picked up along the years. Not only was the self-punch poetically just--well, as much as it could be to a Sunberthian--it also created broken fingers and broken noses in a single, blinding burst of pain and paralysis. He ought to give it a name. A slick one, with a hint of badassery.
Another day, the cook sighed. Right now, he had a rat with answers to spill.
He grabbed the boy, who was clutching a bloodied face and moaning with pain, and connected knee to pale stomach. The whore fell onto the floor and curled into a ball, wheezing for air as his hands shifted their attentions to his torso and left his face visible in all of its crimson smeared, broken nosed glory.
Nov quirked an eyebrow at Arlana and took a look at her locks. No key, he guessed, and no time to look for tools. Never one for subtlety, the mercenary placed one hand on the table top, the other around its leg, and yanked hard with a grunt. The leg cracked a little. He yanked again, this time harder, and it plunked onto the ground, allowing the shackles to slip free.
"You alright?" he asked, his eyes running over her form to make sure no serious damage had been done.
The girl seemed unharmed, though that did little to dampen his growing frustration and anger. Fucking Daggerhands and their revolting little minions. Always doing as they pleased with not another care in the world for those they hurt. They deserved his vexation, and more. Every. Last. One of them.
Picking up the knife from the wooden floor, Nov sauntered over to the wounded figure and knelt beside it. He tapped the side of the boy's head with the flat end of the blade. "Tell me where Tinnie is," he asked, almost congenially, "and I might not have the cooks feed you your own balls mounted on a silver platter tonight."
The whore was not happy about answering to him, but he did so anyway. "T-Tom. My name i-is Tom. P-Please, don't hurt me."
Nov turned to Arlana, wondering if the thief had managed to learn anything that would aid in his interrogation. Cooperation was always preferable for the sake of speed. Any tick now, he kept thinking, Evy was going to wake up and scream bloody murder. The sooner they got this little shyke to start coughing up answers, the sooner they could get the petch out of here.
