The Whore, the Mortician and the Corpse

[Myron Fernsby]

"We don't know where he'll be. That's the point." Myron's head canted to the side as he thought about it, suddenly annoyed. Breda did have a good head on her shoulders after all. She was practical, and steady. He wouldn't have to worry about her having some hysterical fit over what they found (or didn't find). Myron had been surrounded by capable women (and overbearing ones, too) his whole life. It shouldn't have bothered him that she, too, was capable, but the seeds of disappointment were there.

He batted them away.

"Please," he said. He told himself he couldn't help the clipped way the word came out of him.

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda shrugged. Good head or not, she was not one to challenge authority.

She returned to the hallway, stood outside the door for a moment and listened. Muffled sounds from other rooms suggested that most occupants had returned to their activities. She could not hear anyone downstairs.

Halla let her in without a word. Like many of the new girls, she had relied on Breda during the panic of the first days. Part of the whole "plump, earthy, reliable" thing. And the dwarf had given her advice, on how to relax so it wouldn't hurt, and how to make the customer relax, so that it would be over faster. Halla was very young. For her it had been very important that the first ones were easy, quick, and as painless as possible.

"Why do you want to know?" Halla asked, as Breda sat next to her on the bed, gently stroking her back.
"I'm nervous," the dwarf responded. It wasn't a lie. "Even if he's not allowed inside the house, I don't want to run into him on the street."

Halla nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "I'd say he was in his thirties, but I don't think he was all human," she said quietly. "He had quite large ears, and almost like fangs on his lower jaw."

Breda's eyebrows raised. "Was he big?"

"Not particularly," the girl responded. "Less than six foot, I think. Not very robust. Brown, curly, short hair and rown eyes."

"Anything else unusual? What about his clothes?"

Halla smiled faintly. "Now you're starting to sound like an investigator. Normal clothes. Dark. Mostly wool, I think. Oh, and he had some quite bad scarring on his right hand. Could have been burned."

Breda nodded. "Alright. Curly brown hair, big teeth, burnt hand. I'll remember that. And I'll steer clear."

Halla chuckled nervously. "I'm not sure I'll remember. Maybe I should go talk to the Porter right now, rather than wait till the customers leave."

Breda gave the girl an encouraging smile. "Might be a good idea. Your mind will want to wipe out something like this as much as possible. And you know where to find me, if you want to talk afterwards."

Halla returned the smile. "I do."

They left the room together. Breda returned to hers, while Halla headed nervously down the stairs.

"Not human," Breda said quietly as she closed the door. "Big lower teeth, like fangs, and big ears. Curly brown hair and scarred right hand. Probably burnt. Nothing else particularly noteworthy."

She shivered involuntarily. "Shouldn't be too hard to find, eh?"

[Myron Fernsby]

Non-human? That restricted some of the places where the scoundrel could go, but as Myron considered the whole city he felt a deflation of his lofty goals. Find him? Who was he kidding? The best bet he had was that any more victims would be brought to him. Marn was not a large city by the standards of the civilized world, but it was still large enough to a quantifiable nobody like him. Especially one without any sort of respectable underlings who could go around making discreet inquiries. Well, ones he'd feel comfortable asking to make discreet inquiries. Lira was a valued employee, but not one he would ever dare get involved in something like this. As for his supposed servants. . .he winced at the thought.

"Was he well kept? Were his clothes of fine quality, or poor?" He should have had her be more specific with the other. . .woman.

He wasn't quite looking at Breda as he asked the questions, thinking ahead. Would he need to hire someone else? Or . . . he focused in on Breda, new and not entirely welcome thoughts filling his head. It was not a move a respectable gentleman should make, no, but she was sturdy. Could he trust her? Dare he?

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda shrugged. "Normal clothes. Woolly. Doesn't necessarily mean anything. People don't always dress like they usually do when they come here. And he wouldn't have gotten in if he wasn't reasonably kept. At least not to Halla. The ones who look like they're straight from the gutter we send elsewhere."

The undertaker's prolonged silence made her feel uncomfortable. She found herself wanting to get the man out of the room, just because that would be a step closer to normality.

But that's not going to solve anything, is it? That man will still be out there. And you will be alone with the secret.

She cleared her throat. "So. What next?"

[Myron Fernsby]

She had a point. She had a very good point. That was the problem, because Myron was coming to a very pointed realization that they might remain several steps behind. The thing was, he wasn't sure if he minded; these women meant nothing to him, and their deaths would mean more time on his slab. On the other hand, he knew it was his duty to do what he could.

He looked away from Breda again. "We decide if we truly want to catch the man, or simply gather enough evidence to push the guards into action. If it's the former, we'll need someone who is capable of tracking this man. If it's the latter, we wait." His lips quirked in a brief, humorless smile.

He wanted to leave, too.

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda shrugged. "Don't think I know anyone like that. But what do we wait for? The next attack? What if he doesn't come back, now that he was almost caught? And I don't think the guards will care. We have to find him."

She should have gone to the Matron immediately. Somehow it had now become too late for that. There would be too many questions, too much disbelief and panic. Too much arguing and wasting time.

She sat on the bedside, nervously fingering the bedsheets. "I - I can try to ask around. We get all kinds of people here, some of them like to talk. About themselves, about other people. And I still have some friends in the street."

It's better than curling up and waiting for him to come for me. Marginally better.

[Myron Fernsby]

Was it wrong that he very suddenly felt a surge of disappointment when she went for the latter? He felt bad. It wasn't the right thing, maybe, but suddenly facing the whole of the city's faceless masses, all those disgusting gutter-crawlers. . .his eyes slid across the room, skipping over Breda as if she wasn't there. Yeah. Guilty. That was him. He put his hand up to his mount, forefinger crooked as he tried to gather himself back up. This was not him. Not by a longshot.

"Yes," he said, "yes, all right. I'll. . .hm. Yes, maybe I'll need to do some asking myself. I'll try to find where the needles came from. They were cleanly made, there can't be many distributors here. Not like that. All right. Should I uh. . .should I come back tomorrow night?"

He still wasn't looking at her, part embarrassed at the thought of lingering in a whorehouse and part guilty for his desire to wait to hand it to the guard. It never even occurred to him that she might be next.

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda nodded, just a bit too eagerly. "Yes. Tomorrow. I, uh, I don't know who I'll see tomorrow, I'll see if I can find some of my, well, my old acquaintances."

She had never really thought about magic, but right now the ability to turn back time sounded really attractive. She couldn't decide whether to blame herself or Myrion for getting her this deep into the mess.

I was only supposed to handle the bloody funeral arrangements. Not a bloody murder investigation. The actual amount of blood involved not relevant.

He gave the undertaker an uneasy smile. "So, same time tomorrow?"

[Myron Fernsby]

He nodded, injecting confidence into that one simple act. Then, he smiled at her. Myron pretended the single act had not taken effort. "Yes. I bid you good evening, Breda."

He stumbled a little over her name with the sudden realization of what her evening would entail. Before blood could suffuse his face or lower parts -- his cat's senses surging up from the nowhere he'd stuffed them -- he turned and opened the door, not waiting for a return farewell. He was being unconscionably rude, and he knew that. He was also being overwhelmed. Still, he'd been trained for better and knew better -- he did not deserve his post if such a trifling thing could bother him.

It was the cat's fault. A human was not meant to be burdened with the knowledge those extra senses could impart. Society itself was not formed to account for them, otherwise there would be rules he could follow and manners to protect his clumsiness. His gentility relied on some manner of expected circumstances, but he had never been trained to deal with the intimate knowledge his nose and ears could impart. He needed to learn.

Just not that night. Tomorrow, maybe. Yes, tomorrow.

[Breda Dreaughan]

The man left. Somewhat hastily, which was not that unusual. People tended to either hurry when leaving this room, or linger for so long they needed a bit of rushing. She had never learned to expect gallantries.

The next customer came soon after. The dwarf was not one of the three-minute boys. He took his full hour, and he took it rough. Breda didn't mind, as right now the most fragile part of her was her nerves, and she did not want to meet any more new people tonight than she absolutely had to. And the man wasn't bothered by the fact that her mind was somewhere else.

Her life had never been exactly safe, but being the target for a murderer was new. It was no use trying to tell herself that the man wouldn't come back after almost being caught. She knew she wasn't being very convincing. She had seen the users in the Historic District. They didn't tend to behave in a very rational manner.

And what if he goes for someone else? And I didn't tell anyone? It'll be on my hands.

After the dwarf, there was one more customer. Afterwards, Breda fell into restless sleep. In her dreams, Halla's description turned into a monster, prowling in the alleys, searching for her. She woke up a couple of hours later, covered in sweat.

Okay. Time to get up. Time to do something about this.

[Myron Fernsby]

Sleep was skittish and elusive, leaving Myron with two dark circles under his eyes and a curt manner that did not win him any favors with his staff. He did win a stern few words. He did apologize, numerous times. Nothing really helped, and a mishap with a tool lead to him abandoning any pretense of work in favor of stewing over his course of action in private. He left the store in Lira's more than capable hands, retreating first back to his home. It was a sad day when a man could not find quiet and peace in his own home, but then again it would never be his until he rid it of his mother's influence.

From the foyer to his room he was hounded by questions from overly conscientious servants who were more concerned with appearing such than actually being such. Excuses brought them into his room with offerings of things he didn't want and a constant barrage of questions -- was he okay? Was he sick? Were the businesses okay? Had something happened? -- that didn't stop even when he demanded silence. Oh, yes. They were his mother's creatures down to the way their tongues flickered like serpents when they talked. It didn't take much to convince Myron that home was not a place to be thinking about his problems, and so he found himself driven back out onto the street.

He headed for the hospital without really thinking about it; though he wasn't a doctor he did have professional curiosities that had landed him there in the past. They had helped him with supplying his funeral home (though he had not been explicitly truthful for the reasons of things, putting it down to the preservation and beautification of corpses rather than the experimental dissections he had done), and he in turn had shared insights about the biology he'd studied in Eyropa. Though he shied away from talk about magic, and wasn't strictly comfortable around Dr. Metarie, they had shared a respectful professional relationship that he did his utmost to uphold. He had few enough allies in the city without alienating the only official source of medical knowledge in the city, University nonwithstanding.

Talk was cheap, and he used it to his advantage as he chatted with one of the nurses on duty about medical suppliers in the city and the issue of finding reputable, high quality sources for needles. He hadn't expected there to be a blacksmith in the city capable of making such things, but was surprised to hear of a metalworker who took on custom work. While his primary source of income was fripperies for rich people, Myron was surprised to learn that the man had gotten his start doing useful work for Puradynes in the west -- until they had found a cheaper and closer supplier. Along with that man he got the names of two suppliers who imported such exotic things from Eyropa (though, again, they specialized in other areas for other things in higher demand). His conversation with the woman wound down, and he excused himself for lunch. It wasn't a lie, anyways, as by that point he was hungry.

He ate alone in a nice restaurant tucked out of the way from the general thoroughfare, valuing his privacy over the popular places he tended to frequent. The waiter was more talkative than he'd hoped for, leading him to leave quickly after he'd finished his meal. He went to the park, instead, and found a bench to sit on and think. He tipped his head back, a small notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, and made a list of the tasks he hoped to get done before he saw Breda that evening.

[Breda Dreaughan]

There was not much time available between sleep and customers. Usually it was not a problem. There was, in general, not that much to do.

Breda's inability to sleep had bought her not only some extra time, but also an unhindered exit of the building. Nobody was there to ask where she was going, or to offer company. She was an experienced enough liar, but it was easier not having to.

Most of the people she was looking for resided in the darker side of the historic district, but it was an area she was not keen to go to. Instead, she headed towards the industrial district and the scrapyard, where some of them came in an attempt to make their living.

After talking to a few less fortunate colleagues, she found the person she was looking for. The man looked so much like a rodent that it was generally agreed that he was a rat shifter, even though nobody had apparently ever seen him as a rat. He himself had never commented on the matter, thinking like many others of his kind that the less people knew about him, the better.

"Breda," the tiny man said in a conversational tone. He had significant buck teeth, which made his speech somewhat difficult to understand. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for someone," the dwarf said. She didn't mind the rat man. He was clever, resourceful, and generally non-threatening. "Or rather, information about someone."
The rat man nodded. "I don't suppose you have a name or an address?"
Breda shook her head. "Just a description."
"Of course. And I suppose this would be paid by the favour that I owe you."
"It would."
The man sighed. "Of course. Well, let's hear it then."

Breda told him what she had told to Myron. The rat man listened impassively. "I see," he said, once the woman had finished. "The fangs should make him possible to find. I'd guess an orc mix, or an unlucky shifter mix."
"How long do you think it'll take to find him?"
"One lonely mongrel in this town? One who presumably wants to say hidden? Depends entirely on how stupid he is. Could find him tonight, could never find him." Seeing Breda's desperate expression, he reached to pat her on the arm with his long, slender fingers. "Don't look like that. I usually find my targets sooner or later."
"Preferably sooner. He's dangerous."
"We want him off the streets, hmm? Fine. I'll let you know once I've found him. I assume he is not to know someone is looking for him?"
"Absolutely not!"
The rat man gave her a dry smile. "Don't worry. They never do."
"I'll see you again."
"Of course."

She felt numb as she walked back. There were a few regular customers she could talk to, the next time they showed up - at least one of them was due to - but the rat man was her best chance. Whether Myron considered that her contribution was sufficient, would be another matter.

[Myron Fernsby]

While Marn was and continued to be small enough for Myron to disdain its entry into the category of 'city' with any sort of sober consideration, it was sprawled out enough that he resented its lack of carriages. Even if a man was allergic to horses, he could still make do with a carriage. That problem wouldn't have even been a consideration if the top name on Myron's list of people to talk to hadn't been on the far north of town, butted up along the road that lead to the power plant. It was a farther walk then what he'd reckoned for, and by the time he reached the building he realized that he'd likely only have time for some cheap vendor food before he needed to run off to meet Breda.

The day had not turned out to be exceptional. Perhaps it had been naive to expect a good first day, especially given his doubts the night before, but he had done research before. Why should this prove difficult for him? Assuming he followed up the leads he was presented with and wasn't expected to track the man down like some common bounty hunter, it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. The key would be in the needles and the substance used in them. That, and any other evidence he could find on the bodies of his alleged victims; he didn't think there was any new evidence to be had in further dissection, but he had made a note of it. He hadn't gotten to where he was by being anything but thorough.

Which was exactly what he told himself when he met a hulking brute named Dragomir at the workshop he'd been referenced. The man, he'd been told quite emphatically, was not a blacksmith. He was a metalworker, and would not take kindly to being called anything but that. Myron was sensitive to delicate distinctions, but the shop certainly held some faint resemblance to a smithy, and the man himself looked the part of a blacksmith, with his apron and the smudges he wore over skin and clothing both. Was it lucky to meet the man who owned the shop over one of the many shophands and journeymen who were so likely to clutter the premises? Not a spectacular day, he reminded himself as he offered a perfectly professional smile.

"I would like to speak to you about the creation of delicate metal instruments. I'd heard you were the premier expert in the city. Of course, if now is not a convenient time I would like to make an appointment at your earliest convenience."

Dragomir snorted, muttered something under his breath, and caught the collar of one of the aforementioned shophands who should've been crawling all over the place. He spoke words in a language Myron was not familiar with, looked Myron up and down, and turned to finish walking across the room towards a contraption that looked equal parts dangerous and intricate. The shopboy ran off, and Myron stood uncertainly for some space of time until a harried looking man equal in stature to Dragomir hailed Myron. The man stood in a doorway Myron hadn't noticed, being that it was hidden behind an outcropping of shelving that appeared to have sprung out from the wall quite organically and threatened to take over the entire corner of the room, large though it was. Myron walked towards the man, edging around the shelving and through the narrow hallway it formed with the wall behind it. He squeezed through the door, careful to not touch the larger man, and found himself in an office so bland it looked as if it belonged to another building entirely.

"I am Jozo. I handle business matters."

Myron blinked, waiting overlong for some sort of polite mannerisms that did not seem to be forthcoming, and gathered himself. He explained his need for medical instruments, listing a few different tools and including needles in the middle of the list. It would do him well to be cautious. "I am, of course, operating on a supplies budget. If it is at all possible for these special instruments to be created here, I would appreciate an invoice with the costs -- "

Jozo started listing prices as Myron spoke, and after a second of confusion he scrambled to pull free his notepad and stylus. He scribbled the prices, and hastily answered questions about specifications of certain instruments. He received definite refusals for two of them (not surprising), but what was surprising was the apparent variety of scalpels, clamps and needles. The next question he asked was not premeditated, and once it was out he regretted asking it. "Do you have many clients who request these things? I wouldn't have thought it given the Hospital's. . ."

Jozo was staring at him. It was a very . . . pointed stare.

"Ah. Indeed, so then, I will be in touch regarding any possible orders I might make. Thank you for your time, sir." He reached out to shake, and had his hand nearly crushed for his effort.

The restaurants were mostly closed up by the time he found himself back in the business district, and with him too moody for company he chose to go with a street vendor's poor offerings. Though he had time to spare, he still found himself holed up in his home privy ("Not now, Lorrie" offered as his sole explanation for his sudden appearance and subsequent intestinal distress) for entirely too long. Street vendor food was not and never had been his favorite, but this was a new low during a day when he absolutely didn't need it. He had his cook prepare him a nice, bland broth that he took together with water and a single roll, glaring viciously at any servant who offered anything more to him then a "yes sir" or "anything else I can do for you, sir?"

He was in a wicked cross mood by the time he'd agreed to meet Breda. He could only hope her day had gone better than his.

[Breda Dreaughan]

When Breda got back to the house, most of the girls were huddled in Halla's room. She slid in, and they made room on the edge of the bed. It was a relief to sit down. Her joints were aching, and it felt like her knees still hadn't properly stopped shaking.

There wasn't much talk in the room, just a pressing sense of needing to be together. Halla, in the middle, was pale but expressionless. Cookies and pies were being passed around on plates. Comfort food. Breda tucked in, although she suspected that the tension of the past day was doing no favours to her generally fussy digestion. She lifted her feet on the bed and wrapped her arms around her knees. It's odd. We're so sheltered here. The girls out there, they are used to being assaulted by the customers. We've been here for so long we've forgotten.

Eventually the Matron came in. "Time to get ready, ladies, customers are arriving." Her tone was unusually kind. "Don't worry, we'll keep our eyes open tonight."

Once in her room, Breda changed hastily into her dirndl dress. For the first time in years, she hoped she could have hidden a knife in her clothes. Well done for choosing the one profession where that's not really an option.

She sat on the bedside, spread her skirt, and drew a deep breath. Bring on the men.

[Myron Fernsby]

Punctuality was important to Myron, but he found himself pushing the limits of what would be considered acceptable visiting hours with a prostitute. Eventually, however, he entered the building slightly later than he had the previous night. He was required to wait for Breda (yes, he was sure he would rather wait for her than try one of the other lovely ladies, and yes he was sure that Breda was the one he wanted and would not choose another) as she was with a client when he had entered. It assuaged his short temper and general black demeanor that he had not been somehow late (though they had not set a specific time). By the time he was told to go up to her room, he felt he had control of himself.

Which, of course, was a barely-held-together lie, because the smell that smacked him upon his entrance momentarily made him a mute. He stared at her, desperately trying not to look at the places his nose told him to look; he held back those wretched instincts by sheer force of will. He felt his palms moisten. If he didn't get his senses under control, he would have other biological reactions. Somehow, understanding the mechanics of those reactions did not help him feel better.

It did distract him.

"Miss Breda," he said, feeling lame for his awkwardness, "I have some results from my first day of inquiries, though by no means as much as I had hoped. Was your day satisfactory?"

He hadn't meant the bare innuendo, but felt his ears heating regardless of his good intentions.