Job Opportunity on Amber's DocksIndex | Time Under Chaos | Game Logs | PreGameLogs | Job Opportunity on Amber's Docks Amber's docks were always a lively place, even with shipping traffic somewhat reduced from the highpoint of Amber under Oberon. Goods were being loaded, unloaded, inspected, warehoused, re-warehoused... and rather than heeding the hour of day or night, Amber's tide set the pace. Men could be franticly loading boxes to meet a tide at two bells past midnight, or at high noon. Further away, there were the bars and cheap brothels which entertained sailors flush with cash in their short time at port. Each was within hollarding distance of the docks, so that the sailors could get in one last drink before being called back to the sails and ropes (and, in some cases, oars.) A bit behind this, the shop fronts were somewhat more respectable. Here, sailcloth and hemp rope were on display, and captains could provision their holds with pickled vegables and salted meat. Cheap weapons shops offered daggers and cutlasses, boarding hooks, drawings of larger weapons of the waves (such as ballista, catapults, etc) and all that manner of nautical defensive implements Goran finished off his conversation with one of the local gendarmes, a freckle-faced lad who couldn't have been much past adolescence. A recent recruit, obviously. The boy was a native, judging by the way he spoke. Too young to remember the old Amber and probably weary of his parents' lamentations about it. That is, if they dared to lament. Lamentations were not permitted here in the new kingdom. He slapped the young officer on the shoulder amiably with parting words about keeping up the good work, and moved on. To be frank, the young recruit did not look much younger than Goran, though Goran knew he was. Much younger. Goran held his age well. The shadows lied for him quite graciously. The tall, lanky immigrant moved on through the busy merchant district, his eyes darting this way and that with unhidden curiosity, observing. Goran was always observing. Opportunity comes only to those who seek it, his uncle had always said. Goran Vladic rarely stopped seeking. Scattered here and there, throughout this district, were a variety of cheap printed handbills. One, in particular, caught Goran's eye. Printers and news delivery staff needed. No experience needed. Good pay for Dangerous work. Orphans and single young men preferred. 13 Adder Way, off Dockside. Goran chuckled as he read the flyer. "Single young men," he mused under his breath. "Ones that won't be missed if they disappear." A sense of deja vu came over him. The new Amber was not unlike the village where he grew up. Just bigger. Still, money was money. In shadow, money had not been an issue. You just believed it was in one of your pockets and there it was. Those tricks didn't work here in the seat of Order. Here, Goran had to work. Not that he minded. He had worked all his life. Working felt good and allowed you to meet people, to make the connections that could come in handy later. Besides, this sounded interesting. Perhaps it was time to change jobs. He read the handbill again, committing the address to memory, then made his way to the Dockside. The Dockside area was a rougher, meaner district than the markets. Once there, Goran unconsciously shrugged his shoulders, rumpling his jacket a bit and adjusting his posture, and shifted the tilt of the pageboy hat on his head. He was good at blending in. It had become almost a reflex by now. The dockside ward of Tattersail may have been Amber's commercial hub, but it was also a nest of thieves and vagabonds. Everyone had to have their wits about them, not least a relative newcomer and one who stood out from the crowd the moment he opened his mouth. The profusion of Rebmans here gave the place an exotic feel, but scratch the surface and the place was cheap and somewhat rotten beneath. Fortunately for Goran, he had a well-honed sixth sense that warned him when things were not all as they should be. He knew what it was to feel the sullen regard of the agents of Politska, and something like that feeling was upon him now. As he turned into Adder Way he was certain of it. He was being followed. At the corner, Goran stopped at a fishmonger's shop and checked the catch of the day. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he looked over at the crab legs, there in ice at the far left of the display. Peripheral vision was a lovely thing. He used it to scan the street beyond, taking in the scene in a split second before turning his gaze back to the red snapper in the center. It was a busy crowded street, and all was apparently as it should be. It just seemed odd that a young man had stopped and looked in a chandler's window at the same time that Goran had stopped to inspect the crabs. Deciding against a purchase at this time, Goran continued on the main street, abandoning Adder Way completely. A block more and he neared a small tavern called the Blue Mermaid. Without looking back, he entered the barroom, which was busy, but not crowded. He made his way through the smoky room to the bar, where he ordered two tankards of the house special and took them to a small table in the back corner. Goran sat with his back to the wall and waited, stretching his long legs out lazily under the table. The tankards sat in the center, untouched. Goran only had to wait a minute, and the young man came in. He leaned forward to speak to the bartender, who nodded in Goran's direction. It was the first time he got a good look at his face, and it wasn't pretty. He had the look of someone in his late teens with all the associated problems: greasy skin and hair, with a large helping of acne. He'd also lost half of one of his front teeth, which Goran noticed when he smiled. He plonked himself down and looked longingly at the drinks on the table. "You saw the job too, huh?" he smirked. Goran smirked at the lad's longing look and waved a hand toward the two tankards. "Drink. You choose which. My apologies if you do not like the brand. If you had warned me you were coming, I would have selected one to your preference," he explained genially, though his smile did not seem to reach his intense blue eyes. His voice carried the touch of an strange accent, not one generally heard around Amber or its adjacent shadows. "Hey, I didn't know I was coming...and anything here is better than what's on offer in the Reek," he said, picking up a tankard and drinking thirstily. He wiped his mouth on the back of what was already a grubby shirt sleeve and grinned, again exposing the broken tooth. "So what's your story? You don't seem like someone as desperate that they'd take a job like this." Goran picked up the other tankard and took a long draw, still lounging lazily in the chair. "Not desperate," Goran drawled. "Bored, perhaps. I find it odd, though, that you follow me all the way here. With all the handbills in this city, we read the same one? And take the same route? Why you so interested?" He drank again, his eyes never leaving the other man. The young man shrugged. "You seemed to know where you were going. Getting lost in Tattersail can get you killed, and I don't know the streets here too well." He took another drink with obvious relish. Goran nodded in understanding. "Es no worse than the Reek, though. Better even." Goran took another sip of his beer. "You're a long way from home, ah..." He quirked a questioning eyebrow at the young man. "I'm sorry. I did no' catch your name." "Michael, though most people I know call me Micky, or worse," he said, smiling again. Clearly he had no qualms about showing his teeth. "You worked here before?" "Goran," the lanky young man introduced himself. "And no. First time." He leaned back, tipping his chair onto its back two legs. He did not seem particularly bothered by the lad's ratty appearance. He'd probably seen worse in his day. "So..." Goran began, then looked toward the bar, catching the bartender's eye. He waggled a finger between the two tankards and held up two fingers. Another round, if you please was the obvious exchange. He turned his attention back to Micky. "Michael. The bill I saw was plural. 'Young men. ' Not 'man.' This does not have to be competition." "I was kinda thinkin' that," Michael replied. "Another thing," he said and leaned forward. "I'm a guild man. I can look out for you, see? Nothing happens round here without the Keepers knowing, and I can keep 'em off our back. They don't touch guildsmen." He winked conspiratorially and breifly lifted his sleeve to reveal a small, circular tattoo. The design was not entirely clear, but its significance was. "Nice to meet you, Goran," he smiled, and took another drink. Goran smiled tightly and nodded at the greeting. He allowed his chair to drop back to the floor as he examined the mark on Micky's arm. "Ah. I see." He looked back up into Micky's eyes warily. "And what would you require in return for this protection?" "That you don't knife me when my back's turned," Micky replied. "You strike me as being the sort of fella can look after himself. The sort I need on my side. So I do you a favour, that's more likely, ain't it?" Goran grinned genially and seemed to relax a little. Just then, the drinks arrived. Goran fished some coins out of his pocket and gave them to the barkeep with thanks. He pushed one mug toward Micky. "I think I can manage that. So long as ze agreement is mutual. And you're not planning to do somezing that brings the whole warren of Keepers down on both our heads." He gave Micky a cautionary look before finishing off his first tankard. Micky chuckled. "Nah, that ain't gonna happen. The agreement is mutual, all right. Just because the Keepers don't bother me doesn't mean to say I wan' to jump into bed with them. This is private business." He picked up the next tankard and drank some more. "Maybe we should get going after this one. We don't want to miss out on the job." Goran took a long chug from his new tankard. If Micky was getting the impression that this man could probably drink most others under the table, he wasn't far wrong. "Agreed," Goran said when he came up for air. "But no sense letting good ale go to waste." The unlikely duo made their way in fits and starts to the address on the flier: 13 Adder Way, off Dockside. It wasn't far, but the streets here were narrow and crowded, and Micky was edgy and uncertain, feeling more a foreigner here perhaps than Goran. More than once he tensed and his hand went to his hip, but the offender always apologised and walked on. In fact, some people seemed to be remarkably civil given the district's reputation. Goran loped along after Micky, his easy stride belying his alertness. His eyes darted around at the perceived hazards, but unlike his companion, he examined them calmly, accepting apologies with genial smiles. He actually chuckled a couple of times at Micky's jumpiness. He did, however, make sure to keep Micky in front of him. The mouth of the alley which terminated in 13 Adder way was half-concealed by a pair of wagons lacking one or more wheels, which had been heaped with other trash pending some collection that had never come. There were bits of broken barrels, stained rags, and the gnawed remains of foodstuffs which had dried until brittle in the sunlight. Deep within the pile, there might have been sturdy timbers and metal reinforcement which was of uncharacteristic quality for rubbish... After this informal baracade, the alley widened until it was perhaps two paces across on average. Irregular construction meant that in some places it was narrower, in others wider, and always of different materials. A crumbling brown brick was set next to one composed of mighty timbers, which in turn half-supported a decaying structure with a cracked yellow plaster exterior. Also, Goran and Mickey's sharp eyes caught little glittering bits along the roofline, or on second story windowsills. The neighborhood seemed to have busy magpies indeed. There were no people in evidence within the alley, although there were peculiar enough smells... glue, paper, fresh wood shavings, and what might be ink or other chemicals mixed with the omnipresent bouquet of horse manure, wood and coal smoke, and unwashed humanity. Before long they stood before the door and announced their arrival with a loud knock. The oak and iron door was marked in white paint with a crudely done '13.' There was no exterior latch, and the hinges were apparently on the inside. With a rough, sliding metal-on-metal sound, someone on the inside opened the square cast iron eye portal. Judging from the depth of the indentation, the door was at least two inches think. It was fitted with a greenish copper mesh on the inside, so that in what was probably quite dim light someone on the inside could press his face against it and see those who were outside, but they would not be able to see him. It also looked thick enough to withstand a casual dagger thrust-- indeed, from the patch in the lower corner, someone had tried to do just that at some point in the past. "Ehh?" a male voice called from the other side of the heavy door. Summoning his courage, Micky tried to give his voice an authoritative edge that his demeanor lacked. "Two fine fellows enquiring about the job," he called through the wood, his eyes daring about the alley and rooftops nervously. Behind Micky, the taller man with the shaggy hair and pageboy cap looked bored, gazing away at rooftops and nearby windows while his companion conversed with the man behind the door. Goran was in fact listening, both to the conversation at the door and the activity behind them in the alley. No one would attack them from behind if he could help it. As soon as they'd passed between the twin broken-down wagons, Goran had detected the ever-so-faint sounds of bells and the sparse sounds of industry in the buildings which composed the walls of the alley had grown quiet. With such silence, it would be easy to hear the sounds of men reading trouble. As he examined the roofline, he thought he could discern what the various glints were he had been seeing. Concealed along the roofline, from his position a pace away from the base of the building, he could make out a small mirror which was oriented in a periscope-like fashion. From almost any other position, he wouldn't have been able to see the mirror. Presumably, the other glints were various collecting mirrors, fish eye lenses, etc. of some elaborate artificial eye. The smells of sawdust, inks, and paper pulp wafted through the viewing portal until it was abruptly shut by the bearer of the male voice inside. Soon afterwards were the thumping, cluttering sounds of a board being lifted off of braces, and an iron bolt being drawn. The heavy door swung free for a moment, until it reached the bottom of its arc when it was a hands span open. From deeper with the building, what was probably the same voice called out "Come in, come in..." but from the way the sound carried through the wooden door, he had obviously retreated further into the building. "Well, we're already well-watched," Goran reasoned quietly to Micky. "Let's do it." The pair found themselves in a small mudroom, perhaps four feet square, and quite dim as compared to the light outside. The floor was composed of scarred and stained wooden beams which had obviously been used in an industrial setting for so long that they had to be frequently patched and cut as they were moved from one structure to another. Light could be seen from the interior door, which had been left ajar. The wooden beam rested vertically, and was attached to the exterior door itself by a hinge. The smells of sawdust, cedar, and wood pulp were stronger here. Goran waved Micky to the wall on the far side of the door, then reached out and gently edged the door open, standing ready to hug the wall if necessary. His eyes darted around as the door opened, hoping to spot trouble, if any, before it spotted him. Micky moved across along the wall on the far side of the door, then paused, waiting for Goran to follow. He was tense, listening. As soon as Goran moved the interior door, he heard the sound of breaking glass and smelt something like garlic. He heard clockwork, and both doors slammed shut with an unearthly force as concealed bolts slid into place from above and below. The room went dark almost instantly, as all light had come from outside and both men were acclimated to daylight. The floor underneath Goran gave way suddenly as something menacing came rushing down from above. Goran cursed vehemently in Srebijian. His hand instinctively went behind him and he cursed again, wishing he had a gun that would work in Amber. He plastered himself flat against the wall, as long as there was a wall, drawing a knife from a sheath at his wrist. Goran moved swiftly indeed, but other events moved with equal or greater alacrity. Just as soon as he had begun to really curse well, had drawn his knife with one hand, and grabbed a hold of the wall with the other while his toes fought for purchase where there was none, the plaster ceiling above his head exploded as a spiked grid crashed through. Below, Johann leapt up and grabbed where the cursing man's legs should be with a mighty reaping sweep of his arms. He got hold of a boot with each hand, and yanked Goran down with all of his might to propel him away from the deadly spikes. They were traveling downwards at a speed much greater than gravity propelled falling objects, and so scraped at Goran's scalp before Johann could completely pull him clear. If he'd been standing on a solid floor, as Micky had been, the results would have been much more gruesome. With his foot off of the catch, the trap door slammed shut swiftly enough to cuff Goran again, although it did little more than muss his hair. Johann continued his swing as Goran fell, bringing his shoulder blades down upon a stack of soggy mattresses. Goran continues in The Family Business Meanwhile, Micky had had the good fortune to have largely been positioned between two of the spokes. One had ripped a long, shallow gash along one side of his leg; another had similarly incapacitated his left arm - but another inch closer and it would have shattered his shoulder. As it was, he could see that the spikes, embedded now in the heavy wooden floor, were of dark metal and gleaming with a faint, liquid sheen. Oil, to ensure they moved so swiftly and so silently? Or ... poison? Micky was used to assuming the worst, so poison was his first conclusion. His only thought now was to escape, by whatever means possible. Moving on elbows and knees, he tried to find a way upward past the bed of spikes, since both the basement and the doors he entered seemed to have been barred against him. Escape ... the thought was acquiring a new urgency as he saw the flickering light on the far side of the room. Fire ... and the seasoned wood of the floor would go up rapidly, to say nothing of the copious piles of wood shavings. And there seemed to be something else in the flames too - a black acrid smoke that made his eyes itch, and made him want to cough. Fortunately, crouched on the ground as he was, he was spared the worst of the rising smoke, which seemed to be seeking out any vents and fissures it could find. The building was old, rickeyu - one of the brick built tenements crowded together in this part of the city. There were plenty of ill-ventilated rooms that the smoke could crowd into once it found one fatal weakness ... rooms where whole families crowded against the cold ... But that didn't solve his problem - alone with the fire in a locked room, with nothing else except the grid of heavy metal spikes, jammed into the floor. Already one of the wooden doors to the street beyond was burning ... The fire had long been put out, but the smell still hung in the air above the salt of the sea. Whatever the reason that had drawn Goran back to the Dockside, there was little left of the alley he had visited; only blackened beams and a few beggars. He remembered the inn sign well enough, and the Blue Mermaid seemed to be doing as brisk business now as then. When he stepped inside, the conversations were lively, and the barmaid lovely, a welcome sight for a stranger. There was something else familiar here too - the voice that was raised above the others that were clustered around the beer-soaked table to hear his tale. "...and there was poison, too, but anyone will tell you Mickey's a hard one to kill, and I managed to slither me way through the spikes to the wall..." He looked like he had been 15 rounds with a heavyweight boxer with his bandaged face and arm, but his smile was much as it was and he had lost no more teeth. Beside him, with arms folded, was an elegantly dressed gentleman who looked entirely at odds with his surroundings, but no-one seemed to pay him any mind. Goran watched the display from the bar. After a few moments of requisite, but not unpleasant flirting with the voluptuous barmaid, Goran ordered two tankards of the best beer in the house. He took one for himself and meandered over to the table, setting the other down firmly before Mickey. "Glad to see you made it out," Goran smirked. "You deserve this." "Thanks," Mickey replied. "Hey, everyone, this is Goran. Looks like you got out alright. Got your own tale to tell?" Goran tipped his new cap to the assembled group. He dismissed Mickey's question with a casual wave. "My tale pales in comparison. How are you? How did you get out?" he asked. "It wasn't easy," Mickey said gravely. "The place was booby-trapped to hell. Even if the place hadn't been set aflame, the door was reinforced, the walls sturdy, the spikes coated with poison. One false move..." he drew a line under his chin for emphasis. He took a deep drink from the tankard. "I got out through the roof, eventually, though the smoke was thick and choking. Some chemical added, I reckon, to create a poison gas. Whoever set up that trap was determined to kill as many as he could to cover his tracks." At this point the well-dressed man spoke for the first time. "What bothers me most is why he went to all that trouble. Killing all the residents nearby just to cover a single appearance, and a single meeting. Someone must think you a very important man," he said. Goran regarded the man who spoke. His eyebrows arched in query, but otherwise his expression was stony. "Me, sir? Hardly. Mine was simply a different trap door, with an easier escape. I got lucky." "No-one gets lucky in this city," Vikund replied. "If Mickey was not an excellent climber, he would have perished with the rest of the block's residents." "I'm Vikund, by the way. I think you may have heard of me. You, I know a little about, but not nearly enough, I fear," he said. Goran smirked, but his eyes remained wary. "I've seen you around. As for me, there's not much to know." He shrugged. "It's an old story. Immigrant moves to a new land and makes good." He looked Vikund up and down, noting the well-dressed man's attire. "What brings you to the slums, sir?" "It's where you meet the best people," Vikund smiled. "Besides, when I heard about Mickey's tale my interest was piqued. You see, when I hear about elaborate traps, there's always one name that springs to mind." Goran's eyebrows arched inquisitively, but he remained silent. Vikund paused significantly, as if awaiting a response, then chuckled. "Not yours, my friend, before you get too worried. Let's just say, if you were to bump into him at all, I and many others like me would like to know." Goran simply nodded once. "Mister Vikund has contacts," Mickey said. "I for one won't be applying for any of them dodgy job adverts no more." "And neither should you," Vikund added to Goran. "If you need any assistance with employment or funds, do let me know." He pushed a business card across the table. Goran arched the eyebrow again and glanced at the card on the table. He lazily reached down to pick it up. "Mister Vikund Anansi," he drawled as he read the card. "Yes, I've heard the name. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have no card to give you. You'll just have to remember my name. It's Goran." The young auburn-haired man spoke with a slight accent that was not recognizable as something from the local shadows. He was dressed casually, but his manner was not sloppy. He carried off casual with a certain cocky grace. "Don't worry, I won't forget you," Vikund smiled. "Where are you living at the moment? Have you found acceptable accommodation?" [The business card reads: V. Anansi, Bart. Consultant. Blackhall. Nos scelestus plaga textus In black and gold ink.] "I reside at my place of employment. Not far from here," Goran replied evenly. He glanced down at the card again. "Consultant, eh? Your clients interested in this... Person-who-shall-not-be-named, are they?" "Indeed so," Vikund replied, "you only have to look at the damage outside to see why. That's not all I do though. I channel information, which is a precious resource in the city as you might imagine. If you have something that you think would be of value, I will pay you well for your troubles." "Shame the insurance doesn't pay better," Mickey laughed, and the group laughed with him. "Yes," Vikund conceded. "It is very hard to get life insurance, with things as they are." "So get another round of beers!" Mickey said loftily, and Vikund gestured to the man behind the bar, who merely nodded. Goran dragged up a chair and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. He chuckled at Mickey's enthusiasm. "I fear I am robbing you, Mister Anansi. The cost of a beer is far more than the worth of any information I have. I saw someone, yes. Someone. But if it was indeed the man you're thinking of, I was apparently not a big enough fish. He threw me back." Goran sipped his beer. Being thrown back did not seem to bother him in the least. This seemed to cause a great deal of amusement among the patrons, and Vikund was no exception. "Oh, I shouldn't worry. It won't be the last you hear from him, I'm sure," he says, as the tankards brimming with ale are distributed. "So what are your plans? Where do you see the future?" Goran waited out the laughter with a good-natured smirk. "My plans? My plans are to drink more of your beer then find myself a willing and winsome woman," he grinned roguishly. "How far into the future are you asking, sir?" "For some people the future stretches a long way," Vikund commented with a smile. "Are you planning to stay in Amber city, or wander further afield? Is this somewhere you can see yourself putting down roots?" "Don't know," Goran shrugged. "I am comfortable here for the moment. Friends, job, meals, all that. Still, the future is a long time, like you said. One should never say never." "And what of you, Mister Anansi? Are you comfortable here?" "This is my life," Vikund said. "There is nowhere else I would rather be." "Nowhere else would have you," Mickey chuckled, the beer having loosened his tongue. "Perhaps true," Vikund conceded, "but it is my home, and where I belong. As you say, it is good to have friends." He pulled a silver pocket watch from his waist-coat and studied it with a frown. "Well, delightful though your company is gentlemen, I have a lady to meet and would not wish to keep her waiting. I bid you all good evening, and most especially to you Goran. Do call if you should ever have the need." Goran nodded once, tipping his mug in Vikund's direction as thanks for the beer. Vikund stood, straighted his jacket and nodded before going on his way. Goran watched him out the door as Mickey and his raucous audience resumed their rowdy tales of mayhem. "Snake," he muttered into his mug, downing the rest of the beer in one great slug.
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