HS&S:WT Short

[sabremeister]

The Not-so-noble Pass-times of Nobility

“Don’t move, whore,” the voice behind her rasped quietly, “there’s a knife at the base of your ribs.”



She sighed quietly to herself. It was her own fault for leaning against the bar while she enjoyed a drink. Still, she was “off duty” for now, and there was a large, polished brass plate on the wall opposite, that acted as a passable mirror (if anything could be made out through the haze of smoke in the bar). Still – bad form to turn her back to the room. The city might be under Inpokkari control, but it was still Moratian, with all the dangers that implied.

“Nice and quiet, now,” came the voice, “to the rest of the world, I’m just another customer inspecting the merchandise.”

She was aware of stale-beer breath over her right shoulder, and a hand wandering clumsily from her left thigh upwards. Co-incidentally checking her for concealed weapons, no doubt. “What’s the problem?” she asked, in a low voice.

“Two nights ago, you and some others were hired to entertain the guests at Lord Chomolsky’s ball. You were lucky enough to entertain His Lordship yourself. In the morning, he found his wife’s ring missing.”

“Are we talking about the Ring of Sverg, here?” she asked. She felt the weight of her right knee against the bar, checked the position of her booted right foot, the toes against her left calf.

“Yes. Where is it? And remember – you lie, you die.”

“Very well. One moment, please.” She slammed down her spiked heel, straight into his foot. She had to give him credit – all she heard was a high-pitched whine, and a clatter as the knife fell to the floor. “Who sent you?” she asked, not moving otherwise.

“You...”

She twisted her heel. “Answer, and the pain goes away.”

“Rostok!” the voice gasped.

“Lord Chomolsky’ butler? How many more did he send?”

“Just me. I know him. Been doing him favours for years.”

“I see.” She lifted her heel, and turned, her long curly black locks momentarily swishing into his face. “Pick up your knife, and I’ll show you where it is,” she told him.

As he bent down, she readied the palm-dagger she kept in her sleeve for emergencies. As the man stood, he took the opportunity to feel under her long red skirt for more concealed weapons. “Lead on,” he told her. “And no tricks.”

She flashed a smile at him. “Of course not.” She led the way out the back door of the bar, into the dim and dank passages that infest the private parts of public houses. She stopped in what appeared to be a dead end. Still facing away from him, she began talking, whilst slowly and carefully undoing her blouse.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“I have to wonder what Rostok is playing at,” she remarked. “You see, both he and Lord Chomolsky know where the ring is. Especially if they know where I am. Both he and I prefer men in bed, you know - we married for money, really.”

“What?”

“So, either I have to conclude that Rostok is trying to blackmail me or my husband, or else he’s finally gotten tired of you following him around. Either way, both of you will have to go.”

She spun, the palm dagger flashing briefly on its’ path to his neck. It was a clean cut, but the blood, as expected, went everywhere. The man sank to his knees. Under the woman’s blouse, dangling from a fine golden chain about her waist, was the Ring of Sverg. That was the last thing the man saw. The last thing he heard was Lady Chomolsky’s voice telling him her name.

Lady Chomolsky cleaned the dagger on the man’s coat, and returned it to the sheath in her sleeve. Then she re-tied her blouse, stepped over the body and the growing pool of blood, and returned to the bar. She caught the landlord’s eye.

“Alfred, I’m going to have to leave early tonight, I’m afraid. Could you have a chair brought round?”

“Of course, madam,” the grizzled man replied.

“Thank you. Oh, and there’s a body in the back. Could you dispose of it neatly for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you so much.”