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"A Tidy Profit"
Date: August 17, 1999  It has occurred to Richard, as he stalks into the Rialto on this evening, that there is a chance he'll run into the point-eared chit that had nearly gotten him run in by the Hounds. He has, however, ignored this chance; bedamned if a cranky Sylvan's going to keep him from carrying out his business. Shoulders squared, dark head high, he strides into the marketplace with a deliberately lazy stride. Maybe today he'll find one of those herbsellers. Even if he has to... *shudder*... wait in a line. A damned sight better than giving yourself up to the plague, after all! Night. The Rialto has begun to calm from its previously bustling state. Unfortunately, whatever peace might have come to be is soon to cease. "PLAGUE CURES! WEASEL'S BEST!" Weasel, the midget merchant, yells. "BEST IN TOWN. BUY NOW AND I'LL THROW IN A FREE COFFIN." Then, as an afterthought. "WHICH YOU'LL HAVE TO WAIT A LONG TIME TO USE!" Funny, how a body that size can produce a voice that loud, as if someone's stuffed a voice meant for a much larger man into Weasel's pointy little frame. Richard, picking that voice out of the sporadic hubbub in the marketplace, glances in that direction... and grins to himself, blue eyes glinting. He diverts his course, picking an oblique path to the little mongrel's location of the moment, wishing first to observe before closing in. Can't look like an eager mark, after all. The bizarre and abnormally loud sales pitch continues to spout from Weasel. "STRAIGHT FROM MY OWN SECRET SOURCE! GOTTEN FROM THE SAME STINKING VARATI THAT CREATED THE PLAGUE! WORKS GREAT! LOW FAT, TOO!" he yells. The few Varati gathered around grumble and go away, having previously seen what happens to those who try and attack Weasel. The Empyreans, which are in the majority, however, seem even more convinced. Richard's mouth curls into a small lopsided smirk as he insinuates himself in behind the wings of a desperate-looking Empyrean youth -- though he takes care not to let the rustling feathers brush him. Fortunately, he doesn't have to worry too much, for the lad surges forward, dropping feathers as he goes, and babbling anxiously to Weasel, "How much? I'll take some!" The lean, black-haired man behind him goes totally unnoticed -- but now, Richard has won himself an excellent vantage point by which to scope out exactly what the little merchant is trying to pull. A few taller, more important-looking customers are talked to before Weasel turns to the Empyrean boy. When he talks this time, it's not in the eardrum-shattering volume that he previously employed. Still, it's louder than the normal person's voice. Richard should have no trouble hearing. "Weasel Say Zechin Per Bag. Bag Have Seven Roots. Each Root Make One Cup Tea. Have Tea Everyday Of Weed And Be Cured." Surely, however, that's too expensive for such a lad. Indeed, that poor, bedraggled Empyrean lad seems to be too badly off to pay that kind of money. "Please, dominus, please," he begs, "have a heart -- my betrothed, she is ill, I can pay maybe half that... please..." Frantic, trembling, he paws through his pockets in search of coin, only to be shoved aside by a dirtier, bulkier member of his race. "If you can't pay, make room for someone who can!" the other Empyrean bellows. With that, then, Richard chimes in guilelessly, "A full zechin for a bag of roots? Ach, there's a Sylve over in Bordertown chargin' a denarius for two bags." Weasel glares a bit at the larger Empyrean man before turning his head quickly to the boy who was pushed aside. His sympathies go out for this particular story, and a sly grin visits his face for a short moment. Turning back to the one who pushed, he speaks harshly. "Two Zechin. Weasel Say Pay For One You Pushed, Or No Get Root." And then, turning in the direction of Richard, and speaking quite loud enough for everyone to hear. "Different Root, That One Do No Good. Weasel's Root Cure, Other Root No Do That." The big Empyrean flexes his white wings, drawing in a lungful of breath and ready to release an indignant bellow at this little worm who dares suggest he should pay for this molting, cringing pitiful boy's ailing love interests... but he's pre-empted by Richard proclaiming in tones of apparent intellectual interest, "That so, mate? Funny, the Sylve said the same exact thing about you." Horribly confused, the younger Empyrean looks about in several directions, from the black-haired Richard to the pointy little merchant to the bigger Empyrean that shoved him out of the way. "But," he blurts, "but, but..." His fine-boned features settling into a perfect poker face, Richard concludes, "'Course, maybe you could tell us why your roots're better than hers. For the sake o' shoppin' around, y'ken?" "Yes!" bellows the big Empyrean, thrusting a muscular finger down at Weasel. "What exactly are you selling, that we should pay half again as much to you?" Weasel doesn't get angry. He just points a stubby little finger at Richard. "You Be Quiet, Poofy Man." He turns to the big Empyrean, and the crowd around him as a whole. "That Person Live Before In Tent City, No Could Heal. Roots Grow In Plague. No Can Heal In Tent City, No Can Heal In Haven." Richard mouths, 'Poofy?' in mock bemusement, but now, the casual commentary he's tossed out for the consideration of the knot of people around Weasel has done its work. The big Empyrean muscles his way forward, barking out imperiously, "Do we look like idiots? How do you know where the Sylvan used to live and what roots she's selling?" "She's a Sylvan -- they know roots, don't they?" someone else calls out. The younger Empyrean gives a glad little cry, finally finding a tarnished denarius somewhere on his person, and then flinging himself at Richard to grab the man by the front of his shirt. "Where is she?" he begs. "Where's the Sylvan?" His nose crinkling up in what might almost be distaste as the winged youth grabs him, Richard gestures off brusquely to the west. "That way. Corner of Fairway and Border. Can't miss her." With that, then, the Empyrean leaps skyward, flapping for all he's worth and shedding feathers as he goes. Two others on the edge of the crowd, eyeing Weasel suspiciously, take to the air after him. Weasel shrugs. This isn't about the boy and his betrothed any more. "Weasel Stuff Always Quality. No Get So Guarantee With Other," he says. "Go If Want To Waste Money. You Die Then," he says, letting everyone hear him. An argument breaks out amongst some of the remaining Empyreans, hissed whispers and desperate mutters exchanged back and forth in between the nervous flutter of wings. "He's not saying? Gods, I'm not wasting a zechin without a guarantee--" "He wouldn't dare cheat--" "Why didn't he answer the questions--" "Dirty little mongrel, what'd he know about healing anyway--" "You'd better be telling me the truth about this," growls the big Empyrean, then, thrusting forth a meaty hand with a zechin on the palm, then. His wings furl out to their full impressive span, and from the look of him, he's ready to snap Weasel in half at the slightest sign of fraud from the little merchant. Watching all this, melting back out of the way to the fringe of the crowd, Richard smirks to himself. Oh, he's seen enough. Smells like a grift to him -- but he's not about to seriously step on the man's game. Call it professional courtesy, if you like. But he's also not going to risk any of his own coinage here, either. The unfurling of wings doesn't go without a response. Two burly mongrels armed with very evident shortswords step out of the crowd behind Weasel, giving a show of being threatening and big. At the same time, Weasel places the bag in the man's hand and takes the coin in a single, quick motion. "There. Go." Now that this is done, he turns to the remainder of the crowd, finishing up his selling to them all. Smiling as he does it. Made a tidy profit, he has. This plague's not such a bad thing after all.
FIN
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