Threadbare Web

[Morus]

The docks were alive with the echoes of an unseen crowd. Jovial laughs, shouting matches, and the clink of goblets chimed above the daily grind of weary workers below and the cawing gulls above. Though the hour grew late and the sun faint, steady lines of people were strolling down one wide pier towards a single ship.

Even in the waning light of dusk, the stately vessel shimmered in a glow of its own making. Gilded with paint and accented with shimmering copper plate, the torches around and atop gave the ship a spritely appearance that stood in stark contrast to the grim sea behind and below. It was a stout thing made up mostly of deck, with a large complex built on top that almost mimicked a small manor home.

On the pier, behind a merry throng of five finely dressed gentleman was a small and lonely figure. He followed at a bit of a distance, padding at a hesitant gait with his wary eyes darting back and forth. As the group ahead of him approached a man guarding the carpeted gangplank that lead aboard, the figure began to fish his pockets and pouches for some elusive treasure.

“Eustace,” said a fellow dressed in yellow at the front of the pack. He tipped a wide-brimmed hat before producing something from his fist, which he slipped the to guard. “I’m feeling awfully lucky tonight.”

“And your friends?” For such an intimidating man, the guard’s voice was no more than a whisper nearly drowned out by the clamour of the ship and the rolling waters below. The yellow-dressed man stammered meaninglessly for a moment, before removing something else from his waistcoat with far less subtlety. The unmistakable glint of gold was clearly visible between his clenched fist.

“Hopefully enough to allow my four associates to join me at this month’s event?” The man in yellow smiled with a mouth full of perfect teeth that managed to look fake despite being entirely real.

“Four, huh?” The bouncer took his bribe with nary a sound more, but his gaze lingered on the small shadow behind. The figure continued its search through its pockets, it’s actions growing more frantic before it noticed the guard’s attention, before slowing to a more casual pace. With half a nod and his mind elsewhere, the guard let the group of fops in, their giddy steps quickening down the plank. The shadow moved closer, its features becoming more defined with each foot closer into the light.

He was no more than a ragged boy draped in a hodgepodge of scrap fabrics and a threadbare tunic. It was hard to tell where the bags under his eyes ended and the dirt on his face began, though there seemed to be some effort made in spreading it out as evenly as possible. His hair was wild mess of black that seemed to have a mind all its own, matted and mussed in places like the boy had just awoken from a long and troubled sleep.

There was a pensive set to his lips as the boy went through some great effort to find words, but he was interrupted the moment he opened his mouth. From behind, a lady in a billowing silken gown tapped the side of the boy’s head with the tip of an umbrella, brushing him aside as she swept past. She didn’t even bother to look at him, and instead slipped an object to the guard with a few coy pleasantries, before she too was allowed to embark onto the ship. The boy scratched feverishly at his head were the tip had hit him, and he scowled with some fierce new resolution. Checking the pier behind him with one last cautious glance, he stomped the last few feet to the bouncer.

“Yes?” the large man said with a bit of amusement. By then, the guard had stopped leaning on the torch post, and was standing tall . “What do you think you’re -”

His words trailed off as the boy flung something at him. He caught it mid-air. Examining it in the flickering torchlight, the bouncer’s face tightened. It was a small poker chip painted in red, white, and black, with an oddly scrawled rune on each side of its face.

“I believe that gets me in,” said the boy, though his muffled voice was unclear, as he had bitten down on his lower lip. His feet shifted, and it was unclear if he intended to dash in or bolt away at a moment’s notice . The bouncer lowered his hands and glared down at the boy.

“Where’d you steal this?”

“It was given to me.”

“By who? Why?”

“By people, for my impeccable people skills.” Their exchange was terse and tense, though the boy’s wit was cheapened by the uneasy cracking of his voice.

The guard let out a bit of an exaggerated sigh.

“You got any money?” Usually, the guard got a quick laugh chasing off the odd barefooted urchin who dared approached the revelry on the ship, but the chip made it clear that, somehow, this child was invited. The boy flicked a pouch that hung loosely from a worn, crooked belt about his waist, and the unmistakable clink of coin followed. “And your name?”

“Not your concern,” the boy began, second guessing himself the moment a flicker of anger rose on the bouncer’s face. “But it’s Morus.”

“Well Morus, enjoy yourself. Play the games, win, lose, drink if you’re able. But keep your hands where they belong. Otherwise, I’ll have to come find you.”

The boy began padding passed the guard, keeping a bit of distance from the larger man. Turning his head as he first laid foot upon the gangplank, he said without irony -

“That’ll be easy.”

[Vendredi]

The kitchen was ablaze with activities, and Fii was dressed as a serving boy. The ruffles on his neckline itched uncomfortably, his vest was too thick, and the black tights were uncomfortably cinched in a rather uncomfortable place. The rhythmic swaying of the ship made him nauseous, and the heat of too many bodies packed into too small a space felt smothering. The grimace on his face was only half an act -- he despised it here.

Turning his mind to the task at hand, Fii reached forward for the wine tray, carefully shifting it into his arms.

Tonight’s the last night, he reassured himself with no small conviction, biting down the temptation to swear as another serving boy pushed past from behind. The other boy laid claim to a full tray of delicacies -- salted fish rubbed in rosebud oil -- before speedily darting out the door again. Fii cursed when the other boy’s elbow knocked into his ribs, and Fii had to dance to keep his balance.

Each crystal flute on the tray cost more than everything he owned, and the wine served was sharp enough to be called a poison. The tastes of the rich were unfathomable to the paltry thief.

With the tray stable in his hands, Fii left the kitchen with swift, careful steps. A broken flute would draw the head chef’s ire and derail the entire mission. Fii had spent the past week labouring on this ship all in preparation for one night. Tonight. Any missteps here could be disastrous.

He strode down a familiar path, through a dimly lit corridor, up a fleet of narrow stairs, and onto the deck of the ship. The cool coastal air assaulted his nose, and offered a brief moment of respite from the thick perfumes and dour sweat that stunk up the inner walls of the ship. Then Fii passed through the opening of the Sanctum with one fleet step, and the stink hit him again in full force.

Between the sweat and perfume was the smells of desperation and sweltering hope, of antipathy and lofty disdain. Fii breathed lightly as he stepped through the gaily-dressed crowd, one hand behind his back, the other balancing the wine tray, offering his wares to the entertainers and the entertained, keeping his face smooth and eyes down. He was the epitome of non-descript, passing through the revelers unseen, unnoticed, unhindered.

The Sanctum’s opulence was as much in its decor as it was in the place’s reputation. More than its size, than the gold leafing on heavy oak tables, the ivory vases and crystal chandeliers, the rich carpets, and the scantily dressed dancers prowling the floors, it was the Sanctum’s reputation that drew in the guests. This was more than a party, a revue, or a gambling hall -- one night per month, the Sanctum gambling hall became a place where one could win anything, or lose everything in a mere second. Here, lords were made, titles were sold, and a man’s riches could disperse like sand in a desert.

Fii fluidly stepped through a large group, past a man dressed in yellow and a woman with an umbrella, past a group of dancers in white feathers, and towards one corner of the gambling den. The was a portly man there, beady-eyed and half-bald, dressed in frocks of purples and grays. He was the owner of this ship. Beside him was a woman in black silk, half-hidden in the shadows.

“Sweet alyssum,” the woman said, lifting a drink from Fii’s tray. She sniffed the flute. “No finer poison in all the lands. You can rob every man here blind before tomorrow.”

The man laughed. “How did you think my fortune was made?”

She glanced at the portly man, before putting the flute back again. As she did, her fingers grazed over Fii’s. The heat of her flesh surprised him, and he almost flinched. The crystal flute clunked loudly as it met the tray.

“I thought your fortune was made through… a more subtle type of business.”

The amusement -- and interest -- in the man’s eyes were evident, and he shooed Fii away with one curt movement. “Let’s talk business.”

Fii bowed and backed away without another word, but a thin sheen of sweat had covered his palms, and he was acutely aware of an itch biting at at his ankles. His flesh pressed tightly against a piece of grooved metal between his fingers and the wine tray. The portly man did not seem to notice anything outlandish, and Fii mentally sighed in relief.

First task down.

He departed the gambling hall with haste, keeping himself out of the way of heavy crowds. Outside the hall, Fii darted towards the other end of the deck, down a fleet of stairs, and ditched the wine tray in a narrow hall. His fingers firmly held the key that the woman had slipped him. The game had only just began; from here on haste and speed would be of the greatest priority. He had spent the past week on this ship, familiarizing himself with the layout of the surroundings, with the guards and staffs’ rotations, and with the owner’s nightly habits. This was the longest that he had ever spent shadowing a single target.

And his target was in the owner’s cabin.

It doesn’t look like much, his employer had said when this job first began. Just a sigil. Stamped with a skeletal hare. But it’s worth a nation. She grinned, showing teeth. You’ll have all the help you need. I’ll give you the key to his fucking cabin myself.

Just get me that fucking sigil.

Fii grinned as he hurried through a hallway, made a left turn, and slipped into a shadowy closet. Seconds later, a pair of guards walked by. Fii counted their footsteps. Six. Seven. Eight. When he hit eleven, he slipped out of the closet to an empty corridor. By now, his heart was pounding ten miles per second, and he could hear it clearly in his ears. Six paces forward, and he made another turn, and then up another fleet of stairs. Finally, Fii came to a stop in front of a large, oaken door.

Nervously, he slipped the key into the keyhole.

[Morus]

From the moment his foot left the sea-slick deck to step on cool, plus carpet, Morus began to have second thoughts. The world inside was alien to him. There was a strange tang to the air, where strong perfumes of lilac and jasmine met the smoldering scent of censers that gleamed in intricate gold beneath crystal chandeliers. People didn’t so much walk about as they did glide from table to table, chatting away with a drink in their hand and no regard for the outcome of the game they stood before. Sequins and silk draped their lithe, lilly-white frames that needn’t so much reach for an hors d'oeuvre without a servant’s hand readied with a napkin. To the boy, it seemed as though indulgence had been made flesh, and mankind had become strangely poorer for it.

Still, he hadn’t come all this way to be intimidated by the oppression of opulence. As his uneasy stare swept across the room, he caught the visage of a server, who kept his own eyes focused straight ahead. Morus tried to mouth some word to catch his attention, but it seemed to only quicken the waiter’s speed. It took a few dehumanizing snaps of his finger, but Morus soon found himself with a glass of liquid courage to drown his fears in one slovenly gulp.

With a fire warming his stomach, the boy sought out the familiar visage that secured his entry into the private club. It wasn’t difficult finding his patron, as most people in the room were either too engrossed in themselves or their losses to stand out too much. But just across from the entrance sat a man at a lonely table, gingerly arranging pieces on a chessboard. Though no opponent sat opposite him, the man labored over every move. Morus began to slink over to him, carefully avoiding a few groups who drunkenly barreled past. Approaching the table with neither nod nor acknowledgement, the boy hopped onto the free seat with both feet on the cushion and his knees held tight to his chest.

“I told you to dress nicely,” said the man as he reorganized the board. He was clean shaven, with neatly cropped hair held tight to his scalp with the help of some sandalwood scented cream. His outfit was simple, though immaculate in cut and cleanliness. And though he looked happy with a sharp smile, his eyes didn’t seem to agree with the rest of his face.

“This is nice,” the boy began, nervously fingering the small scarf around his neck. It had some color to it, once, vaguely orange or red. “For me, at least.”

“You could have at least worn shoes.”

“I’m your lackey, not your whore.”

This elicited a chuckle from the strange man, though Morus paid it no mind. Instead, Morus absent-mindedly placed a pawn on the board, though his gaze was focused on the bar at the far end of the room. There was a strange, lovely woman seated there in fine black silk. Morus swore that she was was eyeing his table. The man continued to play a few more moves, though his attention seemed more on her than the state of the table…

“Checkmate.” The man’s grin contorted his face to such a degree that Morus felt uncomfortable looking at him. “You don’t play often?”

“Not much of a chance to,” the boy scoffed, slipping his hand beneath the table and finding a small key taped to the underside. He pocketed it and rose to leave. “I look like one urchin in a thousand in this city. I’ll get it and be gone without a trace.”

The man’s only response was that damnable smile, and to shoo Morus away as a new opponent came to take his place. The boy set off, but not before noticing his replacement’s exaggerated efforts to dust off the chair.

Down a series of hallways and darting paths, Morus stuck to the shadows as best he could. They were dimmer than the grandiose display in the game room, and he used it much to his advantage. When a pair of guards on their rounds almost discovered his skulking, he willed a bit of the energy within him to knock over a ticking clock that hung on a wall, and slipped by without them noticing. As fine carpet became well-tread and plain, he knew he was almost at his destination. He’d memorized his employer’s instructions nearly a week ago, and when he walked down a final set of stairs, he knew he was at the cabin he’d been told of.

But as he fished through his pouches for the key,a tingling dread came rolling up his spine. The door was ajar, and a young man stood at the doorway as if he were just leaving. His body was posed in such a way that Morus’ wide-eyes had some trouble distinguishing his features. But a slight glimmer in his hand told the boy that the prize he sought was right before him. Perhaps the drink had gotten to him, but there was little time for caution or diplomacy. Morus balled his hand in a fist and struck out with it when he was a few feet from the unexpected thief.

The boy could feel his strength wane as a burst of energy ripped through him and towards the man, who’d been caught unawares at first. The man stumbled back against the door jamb, bracing himself in shock before turning his attention to Morus, who came charging recklessly ahead.