Not dead yet

Ira regained consciousness and immediately regretted doing so.
His body, realising his brain was once again open for business, rushed to deliver urgent injury reports. He groaned in dismay as the wave of pain washed over him, convinced that his entire body must be one giant discoloured bruise. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to assess the extent of the damage.

After a moment he opened a closed them a few more times.

His vision remained stubbornly black and he felt his heart rate spike as panic touched him. How much damage had the jezail blast had caused him? He tried to bring his hands up to touch his face and failed. He felt restraints around his wrists holding his arms tightly to the small of his back.  Slowly he flexed and strained testing the strength of his bonds and found them to be unyielding steel cuffs.

With this new information in mind his brain reassessed his situation and reluctantly conceded that it was just possible that there may be fabric against his face. On further consideration it could well be his his blindness may have less to do his being horribly disfigured by Aetheric fire and more to do with a tight hood having been drawn over his head while he was unconscious.

Ira permitted himself a small sigh of relief and calmed his racing pulse with an effort of will. And began evaluating his predicament.

The situation was less than ideal but decidedly more manageable with face and eye balls intact. He smiled a crooked smile in the privacy of his hood as he took pride in his crisis management skills. Only conscious for half a minute and already his position was markedly improved.  Why if he continued on at this pace he could well have in a seat on the council by morning.

His confidence restored he took stock of his surroundings. Beaten, blinded, bound and… in bouncing? Yes He could feel a vibration in his stomach as the floor beneath him juddered and bounced. He was in the back of a wagon then. Rattling along the cities cobbled streets to destinations unknown at who knows what hour of the night. His abductors were a bold bunch to traipse through the streets so conspicuously with the curfew in place after the flashy show they had put on at the taproom.

His aches and pains washing over him a new as he briefly relived the fight and felt the consequences. It was the first time he had encountered a Jezil and he fervently hoped it would be the last. He felt an titch between his shoulder blades as he imagined that weapon still trained on him as he lay immobile. Had the gun man accompanied him? It seemed unlikely that he would entrust Ira to his thugs after their disappointing performance in the brawl. But still he had to be sure.

Mr Ira yawned in exaggerated fashion and stretched, as best as he was able given his restraints, as though rousing himself from a pleasant nap. He turned his head back and forth as though taking in his surroundings in spite of the hood.

“Well this is an unfortunate turn of events” he said in a bass grumble “either I have fallen prey to villains most foul or I finally gathered enough nerve to request one of the special services that madam Cassandra offers her clients.”

Immediately a sharp kick was delivered to his ribs knocking the wind from him for a moment. “Ah” He continues with a note of strain in his voice “well that clarifies things nicely. Cassandra I’d know your delicate touch anywhere. Be a dear and unfasten these will you? I fear I have another appointment to which a must attend”

“Sshut up you bashtart” a shrill voice screamed in his ear

Ira grinned in the confines of his hood. He recognised the voice of the pigeon man though it seems that he had developed something of a lisp since they had last conversed.

“Don’t be jealous my dove. You know you’re the only one for me. At least when I can afford you.”

Another kick buried itself in his ribs and another and another. He began to regret this course of action.

“Enough.”

It was only one word but it was sufficient. The beating ended instantly and Ira knows he’s there. That air of authority certainly did not belong to the bearded man or the cringer. He quieted himself and waited patiently. Nothing to be done with a weapon trained on his back. The wagon rumbled on.

After an interminable wait they come to a halt and he heard the back of the wagon swing open with a clatter. Rough hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him out and on to his feet. He waited patiently hanging forward just a little letting his captors take up his weight. Why stand when you can be carried after all.

An urgent whisper came from his right “I don’t like this. Dealing with them isn’t right. Won’t have taken the job if I’d known…”

“But you did take the job. And now the work is done. Whether you accept the payment or not is irrelevant to me but you will not insult the client so still that wagging tongue of yours. Take the hood off they will doubtless be wanting proof of purchase and believe me you would rather not make them ask for it.”

The covering was yanked roughly from Ira’s head and he screwed his eyes shut as the light assaulted his senses. He blinked the tears from bleary eyes and focused on his surroundings. The bearded thug supported him on the right looking decidedly fidgety. Pigeon man stood on his left scowling at him, his lips drawn back in a snarl to reveal several teeth missing from their recent bout and behind them Ira fancied he saw the flicker of a slightly shorter tongue. Ira gave him a nasty grin in return showing off his own perfect dental work. Of the cringer there was no sign at all. Idly he wondered if his third assailant had even survived the blast. The gunman stood to the fore waiting to greet his guests.

The loading doors on the side of large brick building slide ponderously open and two hulking figures emerged. Ira felt his stomach sink at the sight of them. The pair advanced clad in in heavy slick leather aprons which extended past their knees almost concealing their rubber boots with squeaked and squealed with their every ponderous step. Their arms were encased in thick rubber gloves to the elbow and each had one hand locked around the handle of a weighty case they carried between them. Most unsettling each man bore a band of bright cloth tied tightly about his left bicep bearing the crude glyph of the intemerata.

They came to a halt just short of the gunman and ignored him completely their attention entirely focused on Ira studying his face. A long moment of silence hung in the air as the ogres eyes roamed over Ira and his captors. He could feel the breaded thug begin to tremble under the weight of their scrutiny. His free hand came up to his chest to cover his heart fingers spread in a gesture of warding as he averted his eyes. Ira gave a derisive snort at such childish behaviour.

“Well boys?” He asked causing his guards to jump slightly as he broke the silence “Are you just going to stand there staring at me all night or is one of you going to work up the nerve to ask me to dance? Don’t be shy now.”

With a grunt they swung the case and sent it thumping to the ground at the gunmans feet.

“All to order then gentlemen? Quite satisfied?” he asked in an oddly lilting sing song voice. He reached out with the toe on his boot and lifted the lid of the case. Ira caught the shine of copper as the light played across the surface the thick bars within.

The gunman smiled sweetly at the pair “Well then this all seems to be in order. I won’t insult you by weighing it. I trust you” Ira noted that as he spoke one hand remained beneath his coat doubtless with a firm grip upon the weapon he barely concealed there. Evidently what trust he felt extended only so far. With his free hand he beckoned to his cohorts. Ira felt himself pulled forward on his left while his right side remained firmly rooted to the ground. The pigeon man and he both turned their attention to the bearded thug whose round eyes remained fixed on his employers.

“Come on man” the pigeon man hissed at him but he could only weakly shake his head before shoving Ira away from him and toward his new owners and backing away. His companion, surprised managed half a shove himself and Ira found himself stumbling forward only to be seized in the vice like grip of intemeratas. Without a word the pair turned and began dragging him up the ramp into the building. As he passed the gunman he stared daggers at him drinking in his features. The neatly trimmed goatee, the thin pinched features and the cold impartial eyes. The growl rose up in Ira’s throat before he even realised it was there.

The gunman regarded him with a note of distaste before removing his delicate glasses and busying himself wiping them with a handkerchief. “Now don’t like that old boy. It’s nothing personal. It’s just business you know.” He turned away to oversee the loading of his payment into the wagon and Ira eyes caught the coat of arms drawn upon its side. The ornate shield and watchful eye of the guard. Ira found himself decidedly curious as to exactly what manner of business that was but before he could ask he had reached the top of the ramp and the heavy door rolled shut behind him a might boom of finality.

Day five the brief action scene

Ira could feel the tension rising in the air. His nostrils flared drawing deep breaths into the great bellows of his chest. He blinked once, slowly, and took a second to calm himself though the predatory grin stubbornly remained on his face. Slowly he cast his eyes about taking the measure of his surroundings. His head remained perfectly still, some small instinctual part of him convinced that the slightest movement would push things over the tipping point and set the confrontation into full swing.

His would be assailants spread out, as best the cramped confines of the bar would allow. One moved to his left. A lean, wiry fellow who moved with his back pressed tightly to the wall and eyes fixed unblinkingly on Ira. As though harbouring a fear that his lone assailant would somehow spring an elaborate ambush on him. To the right there came a high pitched whine causing him to flinch.

Ira turned his attention to a thickly bearded man on his right as he finished pushing a table from his path with another kick giving himself more room to manoeuvre. He hefted his club to his shoulder brushing the ceiling with its head before thinking better of it and dropping it down into a more sensible stance. Glancing at his allies self-consciously to see if his mistake had been noticed. 

The third was the largest of the group, almost as large as Ira himself. And certainly most confident of their number. Perhaps even a little cocky. He stood just out of reach slapping the club into his open palm in what he clearly though was an intimidating manner. His head bobbed in time with the clubs unsteady beat as he slowly worked himself up towards violence. Ira found himself drawing a comparison to an oversized and particularly viscous looking pigeon. 

The last of them remained at the bar beside the leering Francis. The pistol in his hands held low and partially concealed within the folds of his coat as though he was embarrassed to have it. Ira doubted he would make use of it as anything other than a last resort. The guard would be taking to the streets by now and the sound of a gunshot would draw them like moths to a flame. It was one thing to explain away a tavern brawl but with the cartels grip on power still fresh and untested they Briarwoods took a very dim view of anything that carried even the slightest scent of armed insurrection. The Guard, of course, were extremely enthusiastic about keeping their new patrons happy. Still it was best to settle matters as speedily as possible. It was always possible the man was willing to take the gamble or that he was simply a fool. It would be terribly embarrassing to end up with a stomach full of lead shot because he had misjudged the man character or wits. If he arrived for his next meeting with Ms. Acedia with a sizable hole in his abdomen he felt certain he would never hear the end of it.

His situation satisfactorily assessed he turned his attention back to the thug with his tap taping bludgeon.

“Its strange” he said his voice a little thick with emotion but still broadly understandable “I don’t believe we’ve met and I doubt Francis has this many friends. So to what do I owe this impromptu visit?”

The pigeon man curled his upper lip into a smirk and Ira felt his smile grow fractionally wider. Yes definitely a little cocky.

“Still asking questions are you?” He stopped tapping his club and raised it a little “You should have learned to mind your own business mate you would have lived long….” As he spoke he jabbed the tip of his weapon towards Ira’s chest to emphasis his point. Ira watched the length of wood extend towards him extending just over the invisible line which he had mentally draw across the floor between them. 

That was a mistake.

His arm shot forward and his fingers coiled about the smooth polished wood gripping it tightly. The pigeon man’s eye widened in shock mouth still hanging open as his self-congratulatory speech teetered off to end in a tiny yelp of surprise. He tugged fruitlessly at his club even as Ira took a single quick step towards using the slack created to draw the club closer to him. His muscles tensed driving the club forward like a piston and sinking the handle deep into his opponent’s stomach. The air left his in a single great gust followed a moment later by his dinner. His hands went limp and Ira tore the cudgel from his grasp bringing it up with terrible force to smash his lower jaw. The Pigeons man’s once bobbing head snapped back as he began to fall backward.

Ira flipped the club end over end with a deft flick of his wrist catching it by the handle and half turning hurled it towards the pounding footfalls he heard approaching from his right. Without waiting to see if he struck his target he coiled his legs beneath him and darted to his left. His feet struck the floor with a resounding boom raising columns of dust from the woodwork as his cadence increased and his speed built. Behind him he heard the satisfactory clunk of wood on flesh followed by a stifled curse but his attention fixed unwaveringly on the target before him. 

The lean man watched in horror as the Ira thundered towards him like a raging bull sweeping aside chairs and over turning tables. He panics looking about for an escape route but only finding the time to press himself more firmly back into the wall before the approaching juggernaut in upon him. Ira dropped his shoulder into a tackle feeling the club swat ineffectively against his back even as lifted the thug from his feet and slammed him bodily into the wall. He felt ribs flex and break beneath the force of the impact and a strangled scream rang in his left ear as the man drooped across him like a sack of manure.

Hefting his new burden he planted his left foot on the wall and pushed off with a snarl. Off to one side he saw the bearded man shake off the dazed look on his face and wipe away the blood trickling into his eyes from the angry red welt opened up on his forehead. The focus of his attention is on the gunman at the bar still standing next to a now horrified looking Francis whose piggy eyes are now as large and saucers as Ira ploughs through the remaining furniture towards him.

The gunman however remained worryingly calm setting his feet shoulder width apart he raised his pistol cradling it in both hands and taking careful aim. Ira moving too fast to change course could only curse and twist his impromptu human shield towards the gunman contenting himself with the knowledge that the man would only have time for a single shot before he was upon him. It was only as the gunman’s finger tightened on the trigger and a harsh green light flared from the weapons barrel accompanied by a loud discordant hum filling the room that Ira realised that he may have made a mistake of his own.

The aether weapon discharged with a resounding boom the energy trapped within its mechanism unleashed in a thunderous wave of force. Ira fancied he could see the air before him distort as it rushes towards him before feeling himself lifted from his feet and hurled bodily across the room to collide with the far wall. The plaster shattered and then the boards beneath splintered as he was driven back into it them before collapsing to the floor.

His ears were ringing and he felt blood trickle from them on to his cheeks. He struggled to focus his vision as the gunman walked slowly across the room, still perfectly calm as he stepped around scattered debris and over hole in the floor where the boards had been peeled back by the blast. With quick economical movements he ejected a small chamber of copper and glass from his pistol permitting it to fall tinkling to the ground. He held his weapon at arm’s length as it released small gouts of steam from vents in its sides hissing softly.

Ira had just enough time to consider that as much as he loathed the cartels street lamps he would, on the whole have been much happier with life if their mechanists had limited themselves to improving civil infrastructure. He felt he had a great deal more to say on the matter but as he struggled to rise to his feet and shadow fell across him and he look up just in time to see the bearded thug swing his club down hard into his face.

Day 4 and the frantic bid to catch up begins

Mr. Ira felt himself flush slightly at this “I’ve mentioned the matter of the lamp posts to you?” he asked attempting casual disinterest and missing the mark. “I confess I do not recall the conversation.”

“I overheard” she replied then titled her head to one side “I overheard at great and ponderous length.”

“Ah” he had replied making a slight open handed gesture of contrition as though offering up a small apology like an invisible gift in the open palm of his hand. The movement was quick and a moment later the hand began busying itself with that unfastening the buttons of his coat, as though that had been the intention behind its movement all along and it had simply chosen to go about it in a particularly indirect manner. If Mr. Ira was in agreement with his hands admission of blame neither his face nor his voice chose follow suit in expressing it.

Instead he reached inside his expansive coat and produced a small hip flask popping the stopper from its neck with a flick of his thumb. Generally speaking Ira adhered to a simple rule he had learned at his mother’s knee. The being to never earn the anger the person who prepared your food or drink, such things had a way of coming back to haunt you. But in later life he had learned an important proviso from his frequently lean father. When it’s utterly unavoidable to do so take steps to provide for yourself. 

On his first impromptu visit to Francis’s establishment two week ago Ira had taken one look into his hosts piggy little eyes and felt the weight of petty malevolence there. He had immediately resolved that he would not be eating or drinking anything provided on the premises for the duration. A decision only reinforced further when he had glanced down and taken in the state of the man’s hands.

He held the flask aloft and tilted it back and forth slightly in mocking salute to the now distant but still glowering Francis before taking a sip, smacking his lips as loudly as humanly possible and drawing his breath in sharply through his teeth in an appreciative hiss. 

Around the room more eyes turned to watch him with varying levels of hostility and smiled toothily setting the flask down on the table between himself and his companion. She sniffed once, then again before leaned forward slightly and squinted down the narrow neck trying to make out just what alchemical horror lay within.

“So” Ira said quickly restarting conversation in a bid to side step the lecture he felt brewing on the other side of the booth “You called for a meeting. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company Ms. Acedia?” 

She shifted uncomfortably fidgeting and twisting a lock of her short dark hair between thumb and forefinger. Perhaps uncomfortable beneath the weight of the attention Ira was garnering from the bars patrons. Perhaps simply uncomfortable on the thread bare couch with its padding rendered so wafer thin by long years of hard use Ira felt he could count the nails in the wood work beneath with his buttocks.

“Superbia requires an update on your progress” she said her whispering voice giving the name a gravitas Ira felt it did not warrant.

“Ah” he said again. Though this time it carried with it a tone of exasperation “It’s to be one of those talks then.” his hand snaked out over the table and retrieved the flask apparently of its own volition at the mention of the name.

Acedia turned a withering glare on the offending appendage and began to puff up her chest in indignation and Ira’s hand whipped back to the relative safety of his side of the table with undignified speed but still with its precious cargo in tow. Ira set the flask on his belly absently stroking the battered metal finish as though he were comforting a scared animal and gave Acedia a reproachful look as though she had just attempted to kick at a beloved family pet. She considered for a moment then leaned back, deflating slightly, apparently deciding to fight one battle at a time. 

“It’s been two full weeks since the matter was brought to your attention Mr Ira.” She said

“Indeed. It has.” Ira conceded reluctantly with a small nod thrown in for good measure.

“You are aware that this is a time sensitive issue. The longer we wait to take action the more likely we are to draw undesirable attention.”

“Oh? Do tell? And here I thought this case was different from all the others and I was to be permitted all the time in the world.” He fluttered his fingers before settling them over his heart to still its shock “How frightfully embarrassing. I must have read the wrong case file.”

She pulled herself half upright. Her delicate hands slapping onto the table fingers splayed. A second later the slick sticky texture reached her brain and she grimaced but pressed on before the implications could fully register “Mr. Ira this neither the time nor the place for your flippant…”

“Ms. Acedia” he cut her off his voice calm but firm “you may tell Superbia that I am proceeding at my own discretion with this matter. That I have been diligently investigating these past two weeks and that I will continue to do so, tirelessly, until the matter is resolved to my complete satisfaction.”

“What?!” she let slip a tiny bark of derisive laughter before she could stop herself causing Ira to from ever so slightly “Are you completely without shame? Ira you have done nothing but spend your days drifting aimlessly from one den of iniquity to another. Gambling parlours, opium dens and drinking halls have been the sole focus of your tireless efforts.”

Ira’s frown deepened again just ever so slightly and the playful tone leaves his voice “They’ve been having you keep an eye on me then I take it?” he phrased it as a question but there was no doubt in their of their minds it was a statement of fact “strange the brothels don’t feature on your list. Perhaps Superbia should consider someone a little less prim for your position. Or failing that at least a little more voyeuristic. Be sure to get all the really juicy details for them.”

Acedia said nothing at first rather she met his level gaze with one of her own and did not give one inch. “I do my job. Now convince me your doing the same.” 

They stayed like that for a long moment Ira deathly still and Acedia almost vibrating on the spot, finger tips white as she pushed them into the table top. Their eyes locked. Finally Ira was the first to look away. He did so abruptly, like a cat that has grown bored with the subject of its attention. The moment of tension between them seemingly forgotten completely in an instant. Only the grunt of displeasure he gave let her know that while this betrayal was tabled for now she was not yet forgiven for it. Still he had conceded the point. Acedia retook her seat and watched as he took another sip from his flask partly for something to do and partly as a tiny act of spiteful rebellion.

She waited as patiently as she could rocking back and forward almost imperceptibly on the edge of her seat. Finally at length he spoke without facing her.

“How much do you know about hunting?” he asked

“Very little” she said “I was rarely out past the walls when I was younger.”

“True of most of Lethe I would imagine. Wouldn’t know what do make a world without cobble stone under foot and walls all around. Still you don’t have to go out into the hinterlands to learn about hunting.” He wiggled his shoulder blades digging back into the scant padding of the couch. Getting comfortable as warmed to a subject “There are, in my experience at least, two main approaches in such affairs. The first is the traditional hunt. The way the gentry hunt on their estates. The heroic pursuit of the noble and elusive prey. Thundering through across the carefully manicured meadows with a pack of hounds to lead you and a host of brightly clad allies at your side. Running down your prey and delivering the killing blow once the hounds have done the dirty work. That’s how the high born think of hunting loyal dogs in pursuit of quarry. If they’re not running till their hearts burst then they’re not really trying.”

“You know you put too much thought into these analogies.” She says with a note of exasperation in her voice. But only a note.

If he heard her he did not acknowledge it. His feelings are still a little bruised. But speaking makes it better. Let’s her know where the real source of his ire lies without saying it outright and more importantly without blundering through the awkward matter of an actual apology neither one of them could muster.

“The problem is” he continued holding forth as though she had not interrupted “that kind of hunting only works if you hopelessly outclass your quarry. If their faster you have no hope of catching them. If their smarter then they go to ground. And if their stronger, well then they just turn around and tear your bloody throat out.”

Across the room the door opened and blast of cold air swept into the room and close of its heels came a tight knot of men pressing down the stair together in their rush to leave the elements behind. The others patrons looked up at their approach and then quickly back down. A few seemed choose that moment, quite coincidentally, to be elsewhere gathering up their over coats and muttering loudly about it getting close to curfew. If Acedia noticed this she made nothing of it but Ira, still slumped facing the door, took note and grinned his toothy grin before continuing.

“Now there is another approach of course. One favoured by those who hunt for more practical reason. It’s not as exciting of course and it demands an unreasonable measure of patience but it works. In this method you don’t bother haring off after your quarry. Instead you ask around about them. Find out what you can. What do they like to eat? To drink? Where do they go and what do they do? It’s an oddly intimate sort of thing getting to know what you’re hunting for. Then when you’re good and ready you find somewhere you know they’ll go eventually and you settle down and wait for them to put in an appearance.”

Across the room the men had settle against the bar. One of them deep in hissing conversation with Francis. One pudgy finger was raised and jabbed in Ira’s direction. As one the quartet turned to regard him with open hostility. Ira took one last nip from his flask and tucked it back into his coat pocket.

“If you’re particularly devious about it you might even set some kind of bait for them. Make coming to pay you a visit simply irresistible. So it doesn’t matter how fast or how smart they are. In the end they come right to you.”

They four men spread out slightly and began to advance across the room. Those patrons who had not already vacated remembered prior and pressing engagements and headed for the door on mass.

Ms. Acedia was watching the approaching thugs warily and cast a side long glance at Ira and he drew himself up to meet them “And what pray tell do you do if the quarry still proves to be stronger when the meeting comes?”

The men reached beneath heavy winter coat and drew forth heavy cudgels of wood and brass hefting them in calloused hands in a manner that spoke of great familiarity. The last slipped something that looked worryingly like a pistol into his palm. Ira looked from one man to the next as though weighing his options.

“Ah” he said and meant it “I must confess to a mortifying lack of humility on that count. That idea had genuinely not occurred to me. It seems I must apologise Ms. Acedia not only was I late to our meeting but it seems I have a prior appointment. Perhaps it would be best if we resumed this conversation a little later this evening?” he risked taking his eyes off the advancing men to glance to his right only to find the seat opposite him now quite empty.

The nearest thug came to a cautious stop a little more than an arm’s length away and stared at him with a perplexed expression of his weather beaten face. “Oui nutter. Who you talking to?”

Ira cast one last lingering look at the empty seat before straightening up and meeting his gaze 

“Well… no one apparently.”

Mr. Ira raised his sizeable hands to chest height and curled thick fingers into loose fists. He could feel the violent intent of his attackers bearing down on him like a physical thing and his pulse quickened in response. He felt the giddy rush of adrenaline flooding his body and his muscles quivered in anticipation of what was to come. Down beneath the beating of his frantic heart he felt something baser stir in anticipation.

“Well then gentlemen.” He said, eyes wide and shining, lips drawn back in something that could only broadly be called a smile “Shall we be about our business?”