Brigit's Flame, February week 1 - Birds of a feather
“I’ve had about enough of those strutting peacocks and clucking hens for this evening,” Phillip said with a smirk, “Whom is fortune favoring tonight, gentlemen? Room for another fool ready to lose some coin?”
Gruff laughter sounded around the table at his remark. A squat lord, older in years and much resembling a walrus, with his round belly and long, graying, mustache, beckoned him over.
“Come Phillip. I could use a new opponent. Ol’ Rishem has taken it upon himself to rid me of all my worldly possessions. Shall we see if you can finish the job?”
‘Ol’ Rishem’, a tall, balding, reed-thin man, in what looked to be his early forties, scowled and threw his hand in the walrus’ direction.
Phillip sifted through his memory, trying to recall which popinjay this was. “Ahh yes, Lord Emine Lundry. Viscount, if I recall correctly. Planning the party of the season next month. Poor dotard seems to have forgotten my invitation.”
“Oh of course, Lord Emine! I’d be delighted. Fortunes and Knaves, or did you have another game in mind?”
Phillip pulled his chair up across from the chubby lord, resting his walking stick against the table next to him. He beckoned over one of the servants and requested an ale. It had been a long evening and he wanted something a little more robust than the wine that he had been imbibing all night, to little effect. The servant promised his drink shortly and relayed the message to another, who left for the cellars.
A few hands into the game, and Phillip was cursing his luck. His plan was to lose as much as he could afford, gaining himself some goodwill from Lord Emine, and cheering his mood. Next, he’d win some back until he was near to even, and then take his leave, requesting the chance to win back his money at a later date. Hopefully, this would secure him an invite to the next party, where he could win it back, and then some.
He was losing, as planned, but it was paining him to do so. The hands that were dealt to him were ludicrously good. Dutifully, he threw two out of three hands, digging himself a nice little hole.
“Thrice cursed Lady of the Cards! Of course You would pick tonight to favor my hand. All other nights I must make my own good fortune, but tonight you force me to make my own misfortune.”
A half hour passed, Phillip digging himself deeper into the hole, Lord Emine growing more and more fond of him and his ‘ill luck’. Still Phillip saw nothing of his drink. He asked the servant to look after it, and the man left to retrieve it personally. Phillip played on, allowing himself a little bit of a winning streak, figuring he might as well make good on a little of his luck.
A short while later, a shifty looking man dressed in servant’s livery, entered into the room carrying Phillip’s tankard. He swept a determined and murderous gaze over the room, drew a dagger from his sleeve, and threw it.
Phillip was just laying down the most amazing hand of the night, full fortunes over knaves, when the dagger thunked into the table a few inches in front of him, pinning one of the knaves to the wood and barely nicking his finger.
He cursed and stood, knocking back his chair and pulling the sword from his walking stick in the same movement. Chairs crashed to the ground in all directions as everyone reacted to the sudden violence.
Most dove under the table, pushing and shoving, trying to save their own hides. A shriek, high enough to be a small girl’s, sounded from the back of the room, as a gaggle of fops screamed and pinned themselves to the far walls, holding on to each other for support. The few with some battle experience, drew steel at first sight of the dagger, but hung back, seeing that it was Phillip’s fight.
Phillip came to his guard just as the servant began to rush at him, another dagger, this one about as long as his forearm, drawn. Phillip recognized this man, and he would be damned if he would let him utter a word in this room. He was one of the remaining members of the thieves’ guild, and thus knew of Phillip’s ruse. One word from this man, and everything he had built would come crashing down around his ears.
Thinking quickly, he took a few steps to the side to where one of the elderly gents was sleeping in an armchair, his feet propped up on an overstuffed footstool. He hooked a foot under its edge and kicked it at his assailant, catching him in the ankles. As the man fell forward, Phillip lunged, taking him through the throat with his sword.
From the back of the room, sounded a loud thud. He whirled around. Only to see one of the foppish men fainted away on the floor. The rest of them looked green, holding lace handkerchiefs to delicate noses, and fanning their fallen comrade. Around the table, heads started to peek out, as people checked to see if the fight was over. As they crawled out from their hiding places, one of the older veterans clapped Phillip on the back congratulating him on his superb reflexes and launching into stories about his own exploits. The old gentleman whose footstool Phillip commandeered still slept on.
Phillip took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.
Someone, it seemed, had the presence of mind to send for Lord Marwell. He burst into the room, clothing and hair disheveled, looking quite put out at the interruption of his affairs. “What happened here? Who dares fight in my home?” he bellowed.
“I was hoping you could shed some light on that subject, my friend,” Phillip said, calmly wiping the blood from his blade and replacing it. “You may want to check the background of your staff a little more thoroughly. It would seem the thieves’ guild has infiltrated even your illustrious home.”
“What?” Lord Marwell kicked the corpse over, and looked at its face. “This isn’t one of my servants! He’s wearing one of my uniforms, yes, but he is no servant I hired. ”
“I should hope not!” Phillip chuckled. “He took ages to bring me my drink!”
Lord Marwell snorted, shaking his head at Phillip’s nonchalance. “Why do you suspect the thieves’ guild?”
Phillip gave him a pointed look, “Really. Do you know of anyone else that would like to have me killed? It is not as if I did anything to make them angry with me recently… Just getting them wiped out nearly to the man and all.”
The lord looked abashed. “True. Forgive me, Phillip. I’m just a little surprised to have a dead man in my gaming room. Not really how I figured my evening was going to go.” He looked longingly in the direction of his chambers. “And do you have any idea how much it is going to cost to have this carpet cleaned? Damnable scoundrels…” he went on muttering, his curses incomprehensible.
“Quite alright, my friend. Quite alright. I’m sorry to have brought my fight to your home. I insist you send me the bill for the cleaning.” Phillip gave him a pat on the back, knowing full well that the man wouldn’t know where to send it.
He turned to address his gaming partner. “The air in here seems to have turned a bit foul, my dear Lord Emine. Do you think, perhaps, you could find it in your heart to give me a chance to win my money back from you, at a later date?”
“Of course, Phillip. I am having a ball next month, and I’d be delighted to have you!” he gestured to his manservant to write Phillip an invitation.
Phillip took the invitation with a smile, tucking it in his breast pocket. “Thank you, my friend! Perhaps the Lady of the Cards will favor me when next we meet.” He bowed and strode out of the room, sparing a kick for the body on the way by.
His nerves jangled more than enough for his liking, Phillip decided to call the rest of the evening and return home. He had what he had come for, and even with his gambling losses considered, he had made a decent amount of profit. He had a handful of odd pieces of jewelry, the layout of the house (including the whereabouts of an intriguing old book), the heart of a young lady (which opened the doors to her father’s home), and an invitation to the next grand ball. All in all, not a bad night’s work.
His driver had returned surprisingly early, and Phillip thanked him for it as he climbed into the carriage. He rode to the apartment he had rented for the evening, his nerves soothed by the quiet, rhythmic clopping of the horses hooves combined with the cool night air. After a change of clothes and a bath to remove the perfumery and traces of makeup that went with all the foppery, he made his way out into the darkened streets and on to the poorer quarter where he made his home.
About a block from his house, he spied a lithe figure leaning against a building, conspicuously outlined by a bright shaft of moonlight. She turned her head to look at him; Phillip could almost feel her smirk from there. He smiled to himself, and picked up his pace.
“Ahh, the noble hero returns! Had enough adoration for one night?” she called to him, amusement evident in her soft voice.
She pushed away from the wall and walked over to meet him, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. She crossed her arms across her chest and cocked her head to one side, her short, black hair falling across her face.
“Careful. If those stories get any more embellished, you might just find yourself nominated for a seat on the council. You do seem to be becoming a national hero, you know.”
Phillip gave her a flat look and rolled his eyes skyward. “Oh heavens forbid. I prefer a more… discreet form of corruption, thank you.” He chuckled. “Speaking of which… My dear Margarette,” he ignored the wince she gave at the use of her real name, as he always did. She preferred to be called Smudge, the name she had worn since she was a child on the streets. Ever since he found out her real name, he had refused. He did so, mostly because it got under her skin, but partially because she was much more than the street child who had earned that name. “These are for you, in gratitude for your part in Phillip’s grand tale… and maybe as enticement for the next?” He handed her the pair of diamond and topaz earrings and, after a little consideration, the pocketwatch.
She gave the trinkets an appraising eye, and smiled. “If I can find someone to buy such original earrings as these, they will fetch a pretty penny. The watch, however, is just lovely. Thank you!” Smudge held up the watch and spun it on the chain, smiling as it caught the moonlight. She had a fascination, and a talent, for all things mechanical, so the rare pieces like this were her treasures. “So what, pray tell, is the next job?”
He grinned at her, seeing the curiosity plain on her face. “A certain noble, whose home I just left, happens to have a book…”
Smudge sighed, cutting him off, “Of course. A book.”
“Yes, a book. A particularly rare one, which I would like you to procure. There is also the matter of a room that doesn’t seem to have any entrance. Someplace so carefully hidden would likely have some interesting things inside, wouldn’t you think?”
“Now that, has my interest. When should I stop by so we can talk plans?”
Phillip hesitated, “Well, I suppose you could come over tonight. We can talk it over as I draw up the floor plan.”
Smudge chuckled and shook her head, pocketing her treasures, “Thank you, but no. I know how you are after an evening like this. I’d much rather visit after you have recovered. How about two days from now?”
“Sounds good,” he smiled, looking grateful. “I will see you then. Keep an eye out, by the way. Tonight was a bit more eventful than I would have liked.”
She nodded. “I heard. Fynn turned up at the party, and was carried out. Yes?”
Phillip shook his head, she certainly had a knack for knowing what was going on in the city’s underside. It had been a few hours since he left, but still, it was surprising. “Yes. And if his aim had improved at all, they would have been carrying out a much better looking corpse.”
”I’ll be careful, always am.” She smiled up at him, “Thanks for the concern, and the heads up, though. I think I’ll take the scoundrel’s highway home.” She winked, grabbed a handhold on the wall behind her, and scaled up.
Phillip watched her as she climbed, turned and waved, and took off over the rooftops. He shook his head and chuckled, before turning to half-jog the last block home, eager for the quiet and solitude.