The Whore, the Mortician and the Corpse

[Breda Dreaughan]

She could tell the man was still feeling awkward. Usually they started relaxing after the first visit, but then again Myron wasn't here in the usual business. What the two were doing, didn't really help anyone to relax.

I should offer to go to his office next time.

She ignored the innuendo. There were only so many things a person could say in a place like this without one.

"I have… put some things in motion. Inquiries are being made regarding our friend's possible location. I can't say how long it will take, though."

She folded her hands in her lap. "If you have discovered any additional information that could be helpful, I can pass them on to my informants. You won't need to worry for yourself, they won't ask where the information comes from."

[Myron Fernsby]

Myron hesitated only a moment before nodding and settling along the wall opposite Breda not unlike some leggy bird. He launched into the day's events, laying out his findings without benefit of story or embellishment. He spoke with dry, authoritative tones that could brook no misunderstanding of his scholarly beginnings, or of the professional preference in making study of things, never quite mentioned but nonetheless understood; they lurked behind every point he made while he squinted at his notepad.

Once he had finished recounting from the things he had written down, he looked back up and there was the barest hint of surprise to be found there. It was as if he had not expected Breda, as if the room had transformed with him to the mystical place he had visited while he spoke. Whatever it was, it was there and gone again as he reached his conclusion: "I shall need to go back to the Hospital to seek their supplier, and then to the second of my sources. It is by hopes that with some small questions here or there I might find who is ordering from where, though there is no, ah, guarantee. . ." he trailed off, and some thought or another, some wariness flashed in the microcosm of his expressions. He shrugged. "Perhaps your. . .sources might make some use of this information?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

She listened intently, although the mortician's dry tone made it somewhat difficult to concentrate. It was usually enough in this room to look like you were listening, but this time there might actually be questions afterwards.

"I'm sure they can," she said after the man was finished. "At least it should narrow down their search a bit."

She leaned her elbows on her knees, resting her chin on her knuckles. "I'm afraid there is very little I can do just now. I can try to ask some of the clients, but talking about other men while they're here tends to get a bit weird."

[Myron Fernsby]

The last bit of Myron's scholarly confidence dropped at Breda's last statement. It wasn't like him. None of it was like him. He could not think of any other time when he'd been so fumblehappy around a woman. Yet, with the smell of sex up his nose and a whore -- bless him, but that was what she was -- casually dropping hints about her position around him, and the smell of sex, and the sound of sex if he paid enough attention to --

OhTheogiosohTheogiosohTheogiosohTheogios.

"O-oh. You don't say. Weird. I cannot imagine."

Like that, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and refused for all of his pleading to get down from there and articulate some form of sentiment that was a bit more subtle than some variant of 'what's it like to fuck men for a living?' which was somehow the only thing his brain could come up with besides rather brazen images of what she must look like when. . .when. . .he stared at her. His face was getting hot. Yes, it was definitely getting hot, and all he could do was stare at her helplessly, as if he was some animal in a trap just waiting to be put down. Yes. Out of his misery. Like a dog. Or a cat, his rather impertinent sense of humor tacked on.

Shut up, self.

[Breda Dreaughan]

You were not supposed to laugh. Never laugh at a man, unless he is obviously telling a joke. Yet, after all the tension and general nervousness, it was impossible not to giggle at Myrion's discomfort. She covered her mouth with her hand.

"Forgive me." She removed her hand and smiled at him. "You really don't need to be so nervous with me. And there is nothing you can say that I haven't heard before."

Perhaps those weren't the wisest words. She knew how to ease them towards intercourse, but something told her the same tactics would not work with Myrion.

"So, what next? Shall we give it another day? I can come visit you tomorrow, or the day after."

[Myron Fernsby]

Misery. Gutwrench. Take his pride out back and slit its throat. Myron averted his eyes and cleared his throat. His mouth fell open, but there were no words to fill it, to issue forth and take back whatever shreds of manliness he might reclaim. In the meantime, his skin was burning so hot he thought it might just melt right off, and save him the hassle of trying to contort it back into a proper expression. He could have died right then.

She moved on, and he could take her gracious aversion from his current state, but something in him didn't want to let it go. This wasn't him. He wanted to scream it at her, prove it beyond any doubt, but all he could do was stare at the floor and mumble something about how he was having an off day and he wouldn't behave in such a way again. He had never been so horrified with himself, excepting that one particular time he had discovered he had the magic taint, but he'd never expected to lose his mind over some few mere words whilst alone in a room with a woman. Even if she was a dwarf. And a whore. Move along!

"Give me," he said, and his voice cracked. It could be worse, he told himself, he could involuntarily change into a cat. No, don't think about that. He cleared his throat again. "Give me three days to try to track down the suppliers and find clients, and then if it pleases you we can meet at Grave Endings?"

Away from the smell of sex and met expectations.

[Breda Dreaughan]

This truly was a peculiar man. Breda found herself wondering if the undertaker was having any kind of intimate relationships. He had not mentioned a wife or a family - surely it would be difficult to explain the frequent visits to The Kitten - and somehow she couldn't imagine him with a mistress either.

Maybe I should try to encourage him. Could be healthy, if he's not getting any. Perhaps once this is over. Or maybe he has an equally awkward woman somewhere, and they happily have awkward sex together.

She pushed the thought away. "I'll come to meet you in the morning of the fourth day, is that okay? I'll deliver your new information to my friends, and maybe they'll have discovered something by then."

[Myron Fernsby]

"Yes. Yes, that's fine." Myron spoke quickly, though he managed to hold back the eagerness. He hoped he'd been able to hold back the eagerness. Left without any further recourse, he inclined his upper body, slightly, to try to make up for the lack of respect he'd shown her with his garbling of intentions and words.

She was more polite than he thought she'd be. More considerate. Better spoken. Curiosity, ever his bitter enemy, had been tempted by her. He didn't dare indulge it.

"If that is all, I shall meet you in the morning of the fourth day. I shall be uh. . .waiting." Fool tongue! He shifted, awkwardly, hand starting to reach for the door as he waited for her own farewell.

No, he could not afford to pay her any more interest than what his beliefs and career permitted.

[Breda Dreaughan]

"I'll be there."

She smiled to herself as the undertaker left her room. Somehow it was intriguing to meet a man like him. After all, most of the men she met these days - and some women - were there for one thing only. Myrion's attitude was… refreshing.

She spent the rest of the night with the usual kind of men - and one woman - and in the early hours of morning sneaked back to the industrial district. She did not find the Rat Man, but instead encountered one of his few trustees, a gray-haired goblin, who agreed to deliver her new information.

The first day and night were largely uneventful. The girls were still jittery, and one (relatively) innocent customer was thrown out for being merely somewhat rough-handed. There was a rumor of a dead street girl, but no evidence of its veracity.

On the afternoon of the second day, Breda woke up with a throbbing ache in her very lowest abdomen, and an irresistible urge to relieve herself that sent her flying to the outhouse behind The Kitten. There she passed dark, foul-smelling water that burned like acid on its way out. That put her instantly out of commission, and on a disgusting, greenish medicine. She shared the following two days and a night between laying in bed hugging a hot water bottle, and whimpering on a chamber pot brought to her room.

By the night of the third day, she started to feel somewhat better. The pain was manageable, and she didn't feel quite so confined to the immediate vicinity of the chamber pot. So she wrapped herself in her thickest cloak, and headed once again towards the industrial district with short, careful steps.

She was forced to relieve herself in an empty alley, but eventually she found the Rat Man not far from where she had met him for the first time.
"We've found your man," he said, before she even had time to ask. "That is, we know where he can be found. Haven't found out where he lives, yet."
"Yes? And where is that?"
"He hangs around the shanty town market in the evenings, you will not be surprised to know. But we've also seen him move along the riverside, towards the asylum."
Breda raised an eyebrow. "But not inside the asylum?"
"I shouldn't think so. It's not the kind of place you can come and go as you please." The man shrugged "We don't really know what his connection to the place is, or if he just lives somewhere nearby. Wouldn't be surprised if he had a den by the riverbank."
The dwarf shuddered. "No, me neither. Thank you."
The man nodded curtly. "We'll keep an eye on him. In case we find out something more."
Breda smiled faintly. "I might owe you a favour after this."
"We'll see. I don't mind causing trouble to his kind of people."
"You know where to find me."
"I'll send someone if something comes up."

The sun was already up when she reached the business district, so despite feeling drained and slightly shaky she paid a quick, if somewhat painful, visit behind some conveniently located storage crates behind the tannery and headed towards Grave Endings, hoping she didn't appear too pallid to scare the mortician.

[Myron Fernsby]

"That. . .." Myron let the following words go in a heavy sigh. His second day on the trail had been met with frustrations and contradictory information, similar to the first, but this time he felt rather certain that he had run into a wall that had been devised out of someone's necessity.

He slouched down in his seat, papers spread around the table he sat at. He'd been nursing refill number seven of the hot drink he'd ordered several hours before, right up until a scowling waitress had all but forced him into ordering a more substantial item from the menu. That food had been shunted to the far side of the table, on the verge of teetering, picked at but ultimately left to congeal without being touched. It wasn't any lack of money that dissuaded Myron from ordering more food or drinks to keep the waitress from breathing down his neck every half-hour, but rather a concern for space; she'd seemed affronted that he slide her money to keep the table without being bothered. He was sure that he would not be back -- but for all the ill-will that had collected between himself and the waitress the small restaurant was favorable to Myron. Upscale enough to discourage a steady stream of boisterous working-class, it remained quiet and private. It was the sort of place a man could take his mistress and be guaranteed privacy.

Were it possible to exchange a wandering mind for reliable functionality, Myron would have. He gathered his attention up from the various corners it had gone poking at, and focused back onto the problem at hand. He had enough training in business to recognize a shady supply backed by trade that wasn't entirely over the table, but without any sort of authority of his own or backing him up he was unable to do anything more than arrange and re-arrange the scant information he'd been able to collect. Were these items pertaining to something he could chalk up to Fernsby Footwear's business matters, then he would have any number of heavyweights to call upon, be they titres or not. But, considering that there was already shades of disapproval coloring his dear family's correspondence (thanks in part to those ratlike servants of his mother's, no doubt), it would likely be more of a hindrance to mention it. He didn't have enough evidence to bring it before even the most junior clerks in the proper ministry, which meant he should either keep digging or look for an ally besides Breda.

A moment's time spent rubbing his hands over his face (noting, with some depression, the stubble there) turned into several minutes. He was interrupted from his sulk by the sound of the waitress clearing her throat. He looked up, and then down to the plate, and then back up to her raised eyebrows. He was familiar with the expression. Exasperation, coupled with condescension; what-are-you-doing-here-if-you-didn't-want-to-eat, if he wasn't mistaken. He reached over, took a bite of the cold food in an attempt to stay the words he could nearly see caught behind her teeth, and in putting the fork back the plate subsequently wobbled and crashed to the floor.

He got up in a clatter, the waitress skipping back two steps to avoid the spray of food. An apology was quick to follow, then two more for good measure. None of them helped; she stormed off to the back to fetch cleaning supplies, and he was left bent half over the edge of the table, hand outstretched, the subject of three discreet stares from the only other patrons in the room. Myron could not help the flush spreading up his jaw as he slowly tugged his tunic straight and went about sitting back down and tugging his various papers back into order.

It was as he was brushing a lump of something off one of the papers that had been half-caught underneath the plate that he made a sudden connection. Papers crackled underhand as he sifted through them with a speed a bank-teller could only envy, and he rose back out of his seat as he groaned in frustration -- how had he not seen? -- and started gathering up his collection. The lot was stuffed haphazardly back into his satchel, and he nearly upended his purse over the table. More bishani than was necessary was left scattered over the table as he rushed out of the restaurant, past the startled and annoyed waitress, leaving several stares in his wake. He didn't care. He had questions to seek answers for.

______

Myron was pacing just behind Lira's desk. Lira had made a concentrated effort to ignore him after several pointed statements had done nothing to scare him off. Myron had not really noticed them, too agitated to be able to do anything more than stalk back and forth at the rear of the front room. The appearance he presented was more of a caged beast than the respectable proprietor he'd been raised to be, but even despite Lira's hissed warnings that he'd scare away customers he didn't stop. He didn't think he could. The part of him that recognized hunting down prey via a scent trail had come to the fore, and it had filled him with the urge to move, to seek and kill. His mind was too abuzz to properly throttle it back, leaving his eyes glazed and his lips stretched in a humorless smile. That Lira was so obviously nervous of this unusual state was totally lost on him. He had eyes only for the door, for the woman who had promised to walk through it.

[Breda Dreaughan]

The perky young woman let her in again. She was curiously unlike her employer, although Breda was well aware that sometimes the best partnerships formed between the most different people.

The dwarf eased herself on one of the cherry-brown sofas and crossed her legs tightly. This time Myrion appeared to be already in the room, and he looked more anxious than ever before.

"I have some news," she said quietly. "But it looks like you do too." She glanced at Lira. Can we talk in front of her?

She shivered briefly. This was yet another turning point. Another step further away from the place where you could still turn back.

[Myron Fernsby]

"Ahh, Madame Breda, do come in. Please, follow me so we may discuss the matter of your dearly departed privately."

No, was his silent reply, in short.

It wasn't that Lira wasn't trustworthy -- she was. She was worth every bishan he paid her, and then some. But he'd no desire to tangle a proper young lady like herself (and a genuinely good person) in matters that she wouldn't be able to do anything about. No matter what happened, she could at the least claim ignorance. He hoped that would protect her.

Myron lead Breda into a small back office and shut the door behind them, too agitated to consider what the effects of staying in a room for a long time with a whore would have on him. But it was his office, smelling of the tools of the trade, and not . . .well, it was a businessman's room, and they were there to talk business. Nothing more.

"Speak freely," he said.

He didn't want to ruminate on his own findings until he heard hers, first.

[Breda Dreaughan]

As far as small back rooms went, this one was far more decent than many Breda had been in before. Not that that was surprising, considering what she had learned - or thought she had learned - of the undertaker so far.

She sat on a chair and folded her hands on her lap.

"My people have found him," she started, trying to sound calm. "They don't know where he lives, but they know where he moves. Apparently he enjoys the river banks, around the asylum. And he seems to do business in the shanty town market."

She shifted uncomfortably on her seat. The piece of news had excited her when she'd heard it, but now it didn't seem to be quite enough.

"They're still tracking him. They will contact me if they learn more."

[Myron Fernsby]

Pacing in so small a room would not be good. Myron locked his knees, and tried to focus on Breda. He knew he should sit to put her at ease, but that was too far beyond him. There was prey afoot -- he wanted to go out and catch it. No, no! He pressed his lips together and took a long, deep breath. He let it out, looking upwards while he thought. Like a person, not an animal. Now if only he could just remember that on instinct.

"What does he look like? What does he do around the riverbanks and asylum? What sort of business does he conduct at the shanty town market?"

For the moment, he forgot all about his own discoveries. This was good. It was further than he'd gotten. He wondered who Breda's contacts were, that they had found such a killer in so short a time. They must be good, he mused. Could they catch the man in addition to tracking him? Would that even be a good idea? Something to keep him occupied later. For now, he had to focus on Breda without focusing. . .on her.

Go away, he told the competing instincts within him.

[Breda Dreaughan]

She spread her arms. “I don’t have all the facts. They haven’t been able to follow him closely enough to the riverbank to find out what he does there. But I’m sure they can lead us there.” Is that really what we want? I suppose it is. “They literally told me he ‘hangs’ around the town market, whatever that means. It's not like he runs a business.”

The man is more tense than I am. She knew she should have done something to put him at ease, but that was too far beyond her. Besides, her usual methods would have only made things worse.

“I’m sorry, that’s all I know.” There was still an angry throb at her very lowest abdomen, and she yearned to be away from the tense, awkward atmosphere of the small room. “What about you? What have you found out?”