Legend of Ransera

The Velvet Cabaret rarely closed entirely. A dedicated reveler might wish to see dawn creeping over the horizon when they quit the premises. More dedicated revelers wouldn't stop until their bodies gave out with exhaustion, full of sensual pleasures. Part of Aurin's job was gauging the clientele and ushering them toward the end of their night before they got violent, violently ill, or other things inconvenient to him. As the place normally only closed in parts during slow hours to allow for cleaning, Aurin could not be in all places at all times forever and always, so he wasn't the only fixer in the place. Some would say manager, though Madame Lunaria didn't delegate authority so much as responsibility. The man with straight teeth and a crooked smile was perhaps the most senior of her lieutenants if only because he had stuck around long enough to earn her trust. Or because her cat had liked him straightaway—it was difficult to tell sometimes.

In any event, outside of the red building, dawn had come and morning matured when Aurin stepped out of his little red-roofed outbuilding to walk to the nearest service entrance. He was the help—he didn't use the front entrance where it stood, a proud strumpet between the Golden Peacock Theater and the Jade Crane Bathhouse. The elder sister looked up to higher art, the younger sister served the health of its patrons, but they were the raunchy middle sister, flashing her goods, tossing dice, and otherwise debauching but still with enough of a veneer of civility to draw the monied classes.

That morning, the back of a sandy head waited at the service entrance. Aurin didn't know how long the man had been standing there, but on the same ring of keys that locked his house was a key to let him in the back door of the Cabaret. He let the keys jingle a bit, not making an effort to step softly, so the man wouldn't be startled by his presence. A quick assessment saw they were of a similar height and build, though when he caught the young profile, he decided that this one was going to be burly if no taller ere long. But he didn't hold himself like the sort who was well trained for violence, and it was rather early for belligerence.

Anyway, he came burdened. It was just a delivery.

"Good morrow, friend," he called as he approached. His walk was a calculated saunter, eating up the ground with his long legs but making no show of a hurry. "What have you brought for us today—or have you come to audition?"

Too well dressed to be so self-effacing, he thought as he sidled up to the locked door. The alley was clean, which set it apart from similar sorts of places elsewhere, like in the Low-City. The walls caught the early winter light and it was almost warm. That was nice. Simple pleasures.

"Madame Lunaria Zirnomei," he repeated with the easy fluency of frequent use.

His key found the lock. He turned it, then pulled the door open and gestured him inside. "Welcome to our den of iniquity. She won't want to be bothered with a delivery, even if those are her silkiest knickers you've got in your hot little hand."

Closing the door behind the lad, he locked him in. It was easier to keep the service entrance locked as opposed to guarded most of the time. This was one of those times. Behind the velvet curtains of the Velvet Cabaret, things weren't especially interesting. An ordinary man was arranging bottles of liquor in a hallway closet. The kitchen was quietly abuzz. No performances were happening this early in the day (or late in the night depending on one's perspective), so no painted women or pretty boys or muscular men in strange and unusual costume were rushing toward stages. Back here, things were done efficiently so out there everything looked effortless.

"Morning, Basya," he said as he leaned into the kitchen just long enough to snag a steaming mug of something that had been laid out for him. Then he was leading the way again. It wasn't far from the service door, but he led the young man into a little office. It wasn't The Office, but it was a place where Aurin and people with overlapping responsibilities could see to certain things. Really, it was a closet converted for this use because it was near the kitchen and the liquor and the door through which they came.

"Who's the delivery from?" he asked as he unlocked a drawer filled with invoices outstanding and small amounts of coin to pay them when delivery was made.

Aurin flipped through the sheaf of papers until he found the matching name. Hazel eyes tracked the script, ticking down a line then back to the next. It was all regular—nothing out of the ordinary. With a satisfied nod, he set the paper in a separate file for those invoices paid and delivered. Though Lunaria had a proper accountant, and went over everything herself with a fine-toothed comb, Aurin knew to use whatever mathematical skill he had to ensure there were no mistakes for her to deal with. She didn't like mistakes.

"It would seem payment has been made in full, so I can take that off your hands..." Of course, he noticed the grip the lad had on it, not sure if his master was the exigent type who would give him hell for not delivering to the exact person or if he was just nervous to be at the Cabaret. "She comes down here from time to time throughout the day or, when she's out on the floor, one of us might take a load of things and put them in her office for her. If you prefer, I can put it in the safe and then we can see what's for breakfast."

The last was offered with a gently mocking smile. Of course, he had heard the lad's stomach gnawing on his backbone.

"There's always plenty right around now when custom is slow and us working stiffs have a chance to feed. It'll be plain fare unless they're experimenting on us before offering something new to the paying clients, but even that is rarely bad." He also had a fair amount of discretionary power when it came to food and free drinks since one of his primary purposes was to keep people happy, keep people entertained, and keep people spending.

It wasn't as though he was being kind to a timid apprentice with a hunger.

Aurin's smirking smile didn't waver, nor his gaze release the lad's as he pulled out a sheet of paper with the Velvet Cabaret's 'crest' embossed upon the top. He scrawled an acknowledgment of receipt, merely signing it with 'Aurin', then folded it in half, and offered it up between two fingers like he was some sort of card shark. His other hand rose, palm up, fingers lazily splayed, waiting for the package. Neither hand was put forth very far; the lad would have to step closer, perhaps even lean in to make the exchange.

"Trust me?" he teased.

The lad might have been trepidatious, but Aurin didn't bite. He did receive the package and put it where Lunaria would expect it. Then he rose and ushered the lad out, locking the closet office behind him.

"Come along then, but don't offer to pay again when I offer you something. I might think you're rude." But his tone was more jaunty and jesting than anything severe. Of course, the lad had strange reactions to things. He was a little mystery, and that could go well with his morning coffee.

The kitchen was redolent of baked things, all the comfortable smells of home. Aurin took up a plate from a stack of clean ones and thrust it into the lad's hands, then with a hand to the small of his back, urged him forward.

"Take what you like. We'll take our breakfast to the main hall. It ought to be fairly empty at this hour."

The kitchen staff were nice enough, though they didn't waste too much time on him as they continued to work, preparing for the next few meals. One might not expect the Cabaret to have such an industrious kitchen, but he had talked Lunaria into expanding things. People would stay longer if they didn't have to leave to feed their faces, and the longer they stayed, the more money they would spend. When their plates were piled high, he led the way through the corridors to the main hall, which was perhaps not what one would expect. A few drunken clients remained, but they had been expertly corralled to a corner near the exit, waited upon by a pair of courtesans who, bless them, didn't look as bored as they ought to be. A man on the stage played what could only be called a lullaby on a harp. Soon, hopefully, those last patrons would be gone. Servants were cleaning elsewhere, the clients not even noticing them. They all seemed fond of Aurin, though they, like the kitchen staff, didn't make much in the way of conversation when there was work to be done.

Soon enough, people would arrive for a lascivious lunch and the place had to be clean.

The table at which Aurin sat was clean, too—small, but with room for the both of them. At least, there was room for both of their plates and mugs and utensils. If the lad wasn't careful, their knees might touch under the little table.

"So, I'm Aurin. What's your name?"

"Good morning, Torin," he said, tasting the name as if Common weren't his native tongue. But, of course, he spoke it as though it were. Or perhaps he was just giving the new person due consideration. In his line of work, reading people, learning them, was important. It helped with the subtle manipulations that kept them from causing an undue ruckus, destroying things, or hurting people. The soft-spoken runesmith's apprentice didn't seem the belligerent type, but he looked as though soon his capacity for belligerency would increase. And why was he so soft-spoken?

The fixer tucked into his breakfast as well, though he paced himself much more efficiently than the growing lad.

"It is business," he finally replied, taking a break from his bacon. "But it's off-hours for me, and apprentices don't often get to run around the city. You were hungry. I was hungry. Now, together, neither of us are hungry. Well..." The lad ordered more food. With an amused smile, he shook his head to the serving woman. He sat back in his chair, letting the hot mug ease heat back into his fingers. "I suppose you are still hungry."

When their knees knocked, he just smiled. Then, after a long moment, he apologized politely, swung his long legs out from under the table, and caught an ankle over his knee.

"If you want to request a song, I'm sure he will play it. When it's this quiet, the musicians are usually bored."

Some of Torin's responses seemed like those of a prey animal. He was young, of course, but he was big enough and strong enough that he wasn't likely to see much in the way of trouble. He didn't look rich enough for a thief to mess with him. There were people stalking the streets at night who just craved violence, but he didn't seem like the type to be out alone late at night either. But then, he suspected. Another word here, perhaps to draw him out.

"My parents didn't sing lullabies..." He glanced at the stage and then the lad wolfing down his second helping. "I wonder where I would have ended up if they had."