Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-13 21:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, cian wilde, genevieve albrecht |
Who: Cian & Vivi
What: Just business (no, really, Reinholdt)
Where: The Snuggly Duckling
When: This afternoon
Rating: PG-13-ish because language
Status: Complete
Under any other circumstance, he never would have come to this tavern. Of all the watering holes available in the city, this was the last place he wanted to be seen, but necessity made for risky maneuvers, and he needed the countess’ help badly enough that he just had to chance it. If all this poison talk the prophetess had been feeding him didn’t pan out, he was going to get himself a shitton of trouble for nothing at all. He’d just have to try to keep the interaction as public as possible. Maybe with a countertop between them. (That there was a man in this city capable of making him go to such lengths rankled, but that was a problem for another day.) There were plenty of people around, fortunately for him. He sauntered up to the counter, knowing he would never manage to get in and out of here without someone seeing and saying something -- might as well act like he had no qualms with being here. At the bar, he offered an appreciative smile to the pretty woman behind the counter and asked, “Is the boss in?” “Yes, I do believe she is,” Genevieve said as she exited the kitchens, a bemused smile gracing her face. It had been some time since she had seen Cian Wilde, and even longer since they had had anything more than a brief exchange over the network. “I will not be long Robyn,” she told the girl and motioned for Cian to follow her. Under normal circumstances, she did this sort of business out of sight and away from prying eyes; it was the safest manner in which she had found to conduct herself. She did not mind rumors, but she preferred them to be just that: rumored. To have it flying about town that she sold items, however legitimate the trade, would simply add more fuel to a fire that she had no desire to stoke. She had, however, caused Cian enough grief, albeit unintentionally, and had retrieved the item he had asked after and placed it safely in her pocket. They would have to make do with a badly lit corner. Truly, what was the world coming to when sordid business was conducted in shadowy corners rather than in complete secret? “I trust you are well?” she asked, taking a seat. The bar blocked the table she had chosen; to be seen, someone would have to purposefully try. Ever the gentlewoman, she took the chair with her back facing the crowd, allowing him the one where his back would be to the wall. She had enough protection these days that she did not fear someone would come from behind on her. He made note of the small courtesy, appreciating it for what it was. It didn’t seem likely that she’d want to still play dumb about the troubles she’d caused him, but it was good to know that this could be done with minimal fuss (still some, possibly -- he was here, ensconced in a shadowy corner with her -- but it was the sort he’d shrug off). “Can’t complain,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. And wouldn’t, to you. “Business seems to be booming,” he commented. “Haven’t been here in awhile. Seems like you can’t complain, either.” It was tempting to just ask for his item and scram before anyone got any dumb ideas, but he didn’t want to be an ass to her. She hadn’t wronged him, and she was useful, demonstrably. So instead, he only said, “Thanks for making the time. I appreciate your help.” “It is getting closer to spring,” she said by way of explanation; it was common to see a burst of business as the weather grew to be more pleasant. Lovers on dates, travelers passing through. He was not here for small talk, however; she knew the value of time, and so she removed the pendant from her pocket, placing it gently on the table. “It is no trouble,” she said in response to his gratitude - forced or otherwise, it would be rude to ignore it entirely. “This is the item of which we spoke.” He put his hand over it, sliding it towards himself. Such a small thing to hold so much hope (he didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough; no way was he dying weakened by poison). “Thanks,” he said. It was on a ribbon, too small to loop over his head without it sticking out of his shirt like some absurd fashion statement. Fucking hilarious mental image. He’d get a chain, though, something long (and too solid to be sliced carelessly), and it would be fine. He deposited it in his jacket’s inside pocket and could hardly feel its weight at all. “How much do I owe you, countess?” he asked. He hadn’t asked earlier, knowing she’d know he was willing to pay whatever price she named. You got what you paid for, and like him, she was fair, as long as you played by her rules. “It is 500g,” she said. There was some room for haggling, if he desired, but it was not a common occurrence. It was not a particularly rare item, and there had to be some potential for profit; she was charitable, but she was not selfless. “Done,” he said. As she’d no doubt expected, he wasn’t about to argue with her when she’d procured this for him on short notice; besides that, there was the adage of getting what you paid for. He counted out the money from the pouch in his other inside pocket, but before sliding it over the table, asked, “I realize I didn’t mention it earlier, but if you’ve got access to a second one, I’ll take both for eight hundred.” Getting the princess to wear the fucking thing would be a trial, but might be worth it. Really, he ought to have sent her one anonymously years ago, considering how she insisted on consorting with Lemach, who probably didn’t try killing her because she found her amusing. “Glad to pay in advance and pick up the other one if and when -- or you could send it to me, whichever way’s easiest.” The request was interesting; for whom was he purchasing the second one? It was none of her business, however, though she toyed with the thought of asking. “It will take me a few days,” she cautioned. If it was not something he was in urgent need of procuring, then the time would be inconsequential. “The price is reasonable. Once I have received the second item, then I shall send it forward.” The gil that he had placed in front of her for the first pendant was swept quickly into her hand and placed in her pocket. “Would you care for something to drink?” “When you can,” he said (he didn’t add: sooner is better), adding more gil to the pile, payin it forward for the item he might never get his stubborn right hand to wear. A problem for another day. The offer probably shouldn’t have surprised him. She had manners bred into her bones -- basically his polar opposite. And he hadn’t given her much opportunity to toy with him recently, which, for all he knew, she might miss. Not that she had any shortage of other amusements. Ah, hell. He’d been seen with her already anyway; whatever damage could be done was done (it wasn’t like they’d headed upstairs for privacy, he reasoned). “I’d take a coffee, black,” he said. No alcohol today. “I seem to recall it’s decent here.” She motioned for Robyn to come to the end of the bar and instructed her to bring coffee and a glass of water. It took less than a minute to fill the order - both beverages were always on hand - and once Robyn returned to her previous post, Genevieve returned her attention to Cian. “I trust you’ve been keeping out of trouble?” A laughable concept, truly; Cian Wilde and trouble ought to be synonymous. He offered her his first genuine smile of the afternoon, quipped, “Is it trouble if I’m not caught?” Genevieve laughed. “I suppose it is not.” She often lived in such a manner - she was fortunate enough to never be caught in the kinds of trouble that would be truly detrimental. “I would ask if you were courting trouble, but I suspect that answer is evident.” She looked pointedly at the pocket which held the pendant; a precautionary item could mean only so many things. “If anything,” he said, “trouble courts me.” Not that he stayed out of his way, but half the shit that happened to him… “I had a chandelier all but come crashing down on my head just the other week,” he said; he could laugh about it now, though he’d been pissed off then. “Fucking thing lost me a dice roll.” She was still easy to talk to. It was funny how quickly that came back -- he’d all but cut off contact with her months ago, but the ease hadn’t faded. He supposed it was because they were of a type, in the end (more so than almost anyone he knew, save possibly Fee, but even she lacked the ruthlessness that he’d always suspected the countess shared). “I hope that the sum of the loss was not too great,” she remarked, shaking her head. “I assume that this was the evening of the earthquake. My mother-in-law’s awful vase became a pile of glitter that my cats decided to frolic in.” Another shake of her head. “It is exceedingly difficult to get shards of glass from cat paws.” In some ways, Cloak and Dagger were intelligent; in others, she oft wondered if Boris was not smarter. “Insurance,” he said with another careless shrug. “Gamblers hedge -- or the ones who live past the moment do. It’s getting cleaned up. Seems I’ll miss that chandelier more than you’ll miss the vase.” He’d drained half the cup of coffee by then; another gulp, and it was empty. Too much of a good thing, he reminded himself. He’d never stopped liking her, but her lover was annoying as fuck, and dangerous. “I’d probably better head out,” he said. “People to see, trouble to court.” A chain to buy, a stubborn woman to convince to look after her own well-being. “Good to see you, though.” He found he meant it. “Do try to court the right kind of trouble, Cian,” she replied. “Some trouble is not worth being seduced by.” Such as the kind that could cost him his life. “Do send Aisling my regards.” “I’ll let her know if I see her.” Or when. But just because they were alike didn’t mean he had to air his personal business here. He stood, making himself visible to the room at lage, offered her a polite but less-than-intimate handshake in parting. “Good luck -- hope this place keeps doing well. Pleasure meeting with you.” Farewells exchanged, he headed out the door into the blustery wind that accompanied the time before true spring. One problem down, several million to go. |