A; ;well kept and neat office. A smartly dressed young man sits at the bureau writing. A fatigued and travel-stained man is slumped in a high-backed leather chair gazing out of the window as the setting winter sun causes shadows to lengthen over the city. The flickering of hearth send shdows dancing wildly over the wood-panelled walls.
"Are you sure about this?"
Many things irritated him about the notary. His monocle, the preposterous over-powdered wig which balanced precariously upon his head, the way the youth managed to look down at him despite being nearly a foot shorter, but most of all the grating of his nasal voice which he continued to ask foolish questions with.
He rubbed a grimy hand over his chin and down, as always seamed to happen as his temper flared, to thick scar about his neck.
"Mein Herr, I said are you sure about this? Are you dosing?"
"I heard you the first time" voice little more than a gravelly rasp "Tell me Albrecht, when I pressed those crowns into that soft, clammy hand of yours, did I ask for a discourse on the turn of future events?"
"If you had I.."
"Did I even ask for your opinion of the task in hand?"
"Well.. but ...no"
"No. Ah, there we have the answer. No. So if you don't mind, please attend to the task you were paid for"
Sinking back into the leather chair, his chin again sinking to palm, staring at the notary's back. The young man hadn't even bothered to turn to regard him during the conversation `- another irritating quality. Why had Quintus trusted this pompous fool? To inform him of what was required of him was one thing, but to let him know so much of their intentions seemed reckless.
He could end it here. Once the assignment was complete simply slip a dagger under his ribs and dump the body in one of the canals. Or even better leave the body here, which would give him the excuse to turn this place over. Scribe killed in burglary, it wouldn't be the first time.
"Mein Herr" The notary's voice had become deeper and more resonant which snapped him out of his contemplations. The realisation that he unconsciously he had removed a thin stiletto from its sheath was toying with it. But how had the scribe known? A small looking glass rested on top of the bureau and the notary now used it to meet his gaze. He truly must have been fatigued not to notice it earlier.
"I think that would be unwise" following the notary's gaze down to the small pistol he'd drawn from a concealed holster beneath the desk.
"Besides, my work is complete. You will have to forgive the deception mein Herr but one cannot be too careful in our line of business". The young man gave a wry smile, handed over a leather wallet and gestured towards the door.
"I trust you will find all is in order" another wry smile "give my regards to Quintus"
A large richly furnished room dominated by heavy oak desk. Logs flicker and spit in the hearth and a figure sits sliding beads from one side of an abacus to the other. The door opens and another figure swaggers across the room
"Your time is short"
The merchant looked up from the desk and met the mocking green eyes of his cousin in an even stare.
"You" he said with an edge of impatience to his voice, "do you honestly think it had slipped my mind?" the other reaches out a languid hand for the goblet of red wine which stood on the desk.
"Seven years," he purred, looking reflectively at the dark surface of the wine, "We've come a long way you and I" the merchant closed his ledger with a slap.
"Spare me your rosy memories," he said abruptly. "I don't care to think how often you have recited them. 'You were a forgotten second son when we met,' he mimicked the others drawling tones with biting sarcasm `- 'Now you have wealth, power everything I have promised you,' I'm sick of hearing it, so don't waste you breath!"
"Forsooth, sweet cuz," chuckled the other "Methinks the nearness of payment puts you out of humour!" He used the idiom of formal tragedies deliberately, as he knew how it would irritate.
"Besides," he went on "It's not as though you'll be making payment out of your own pocket `- so to speak `- is it? Or do I detect remorse? Really, I hadn't thought you such a milksop." He chuckled again at the others obvious irritation. "I grant you had human nature been otherwise, your position might have been more difficult, but it's comforting to know that one can always count on greed and ambition. Your plan is flawless, my dear, brilliant cousin `- sheer poetry. What can possibly go wrong?"
"Nothing" the merchant replied through clenched teeth, "Sigmar willing."
"Now, now" the other said half-mocking and half-reproving, "You really should know better than that. He can't help you now"
The Merchant made no reply. Seven years had taught him there was no way to win when his cousin was in one of these moods.
A broad cobbled street in one of the better districts in town. Fine flakes of snow fall and a figure stands under the eves of building trying to stamp the cold out of his boots, waiting the arrival of his uncle's coach. Of course, he has already been into the tavern and paid good coin for an empty table to remain that way until his uncle's arrival. But to actually arrive and be seated before the old man might appear bad form. A few freezing minutes later and finally the coach arrives. He can see his uncle ushered from the coach into the welcoming interior of the Golden Goose.
The tap room is warm and welcoming. The smell of wood smoke, roasting meat, tobacco and old beer form a heady mix. He can see the old man at the table he had reserved. "Ah there you are m'boy come and sit. I have some" he appeared to be searching for the correct word "interesting news for you. But first we'll eat."
The old man had broken it to him after three courses over a particularly sweet Telian wine. He wasn't sure quite how he should feel.
"I'm lead to believe the sum is quite sizable." The old man used his napkin to dab away the last of his food from mouth. "You have been so busy of late with the completion of the orphanage, I think the journey itself will do you good." The old man begins to pack his pipe, "If you time things right you may be in Bogenhafen for the Schafenfest. A quaint festival I know but one that is attended by many young ladies of nobility, and you could do worse." The old man puffs gently for the flame to take.
"Besides, they feel it would advance our cause a great deal." The old man exhales a plume of smoke from each nostril and his thin lips spread into a smile. "Well indeed uncle, how could I let the children down?"