Filth & Finery: the Ninja and the Wit

The thin man with the roguish smile was getting on Akbar’s nerves. He had given the merchant the money he’d asked for, but Akbar felt that something wasn’t right with the coins. The man’s smile didn’t help things, for it was condescending and disarming. It shook the proud merchant, who was far more comfortable dealing with cutthroats and brigands than this unsettlingly charming individual.  It infuriated him.

“Fifteen platinum for the whole thing, right mate?”

Akbar grunted in reply, sliding the coins off the counter and into the palm of his hand.  “Get out of here, then.”

The rogue winked and bowed with a flourish, the boots of his heels clicking arrogantly against the stone floor of Akbar’s shop.  He spun on said heel and strode from the shop, taking with him the small, neatly wrapped package he’d just purchased.  Akbar stared at the immaculately clean man, wondering - and not for the first time - what such a person was doing in this part of town. With fine silken clothes and a perfectly trimmed goatee, he surely stood out among the thieves and beggars of the Maze.  Scar, Akbar’s burly protection, glared down at the smallish man but he only grinned in reply, offering a two fingered salute to the hulking half-ogre before stepping through the door, bell jingling.

As soon as the man had gone, Akbar spilled the coins from his palm back onto the counter, the beautiful clinking of platinum on wood filling his ears. He scrutinized each piece with careful detail, comparing the weights, shapes, and textures. He frowned - almost in disappointment - as he could find nothing wrong with the payment.  He dropped each piece into a pouch as he inspected it.  

He would have to tell Grimnick when he returned from tailing the rogue.

Akbar shrugged and shuffled into the back of his shop, parting the beads that separated it from the sales floor.  He hefted the small, rough pouch with each step, the musical clinking bringing a smile to the gruff old man’s face.  In the back of the storeroom under the stairs was a large lockbox, filled with the life earnings of Akbar the Fence.

He knew that someday he’d have to make a quick getaway, leaving the life he lived far behind in a hurry, and would need money to live on. He examined the chest a moment, looking for signs of tampering - he found none.  He slipped the key - a complex-looking thing on a silver chain - from around his neck and worked it into the lock, turning it a mere quarter turn to the right and a full turn to the left before it opened with a soft click.  A full turn to the right, or anything less than a full turn to the left, would have ended very poorly for the would-be opener of the lockbox.

The lid of the lockbox opened smoothly and silently, lifting a set of shelves from the depths of the wooden box. Akbar tossed the little pouch onto one of the shelves, where it landed softly.  He shut the lid slowly with a satisfied sigh, for that small fortune represented more than a week of work for the shady merchant. He went to turn the lock to re-secure his retirement, but paused. When he tossed the rogue’s pouch, no musical clinking issued from the landing. He hurriedly opened the chest again, grabbing at the pouch. The second he lifted it from the shelf he knew, but he upended it anyway, emptying its contents - absolutely nothing.  

His eyebrow twitched lightly, and he turned and stormed back onto the sales floor.  Before he could even open his mouth to rant at Scar, an out of breath and sweaty Grimnick Groggle stumbled through the door, a wild look in his eyes.

“He got away, Akbar! He’s fast, and crafty!” the little, red-skinned goblin squeaked.

Akbar hurled the pouch toward Grimnick, but its weight carried it a mere three paces before it flopped to the ground.  “Find him, you pathetic creature!” the merchant screamed, hurling a statuette at the diminutive man. Grimnick dodged it nimbly and slipped back out the door, squeaking in terror.  

Eamon d’Arnise knew the goblin was there. He wasn’t being subtle - at least, not subtle enough - and even if the man were a gifted tail, he’d have been spotted by the rogue’s keen eyes.  He’d had enough tails in his lifetime to learn what one looked like. The goblin was an interesting little thing though, decked out head to foot in black robes, with a curved blade on his back.

The rogue picked up his step, each stride carrying him just a bit further than the last.  The goblin struggled to keep up, but in a crowd that neither noticed him nor cared that he existed, he found it difficult. Eamon, however, who cut a regal figure and exuded an aura of utter confidence, neatly parted the sea of flesh.  He sidestepped into an alley and broke into a casual jog, nimbly jumping over a passed-out drunk and sidestepping a chamber pot.  

He shimmied into one final alley, this one barely accommodating even his slight girth. He immediately vanished from view, the severe shadows of the high sun enveloping him completely. Eamon closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool adobe building and sighed softly, a smirk still on his lips.  After a moment to collect what little breath he’d lost, he opened his eyes. What he saw made his eyebrows narrow and his nose crinkle in disgust. Mud the color of rust caked his fine, knee-cut boots, and some darker substance splattered the toes - what this was, Eamon’s stomach turned at the slightest contemplation