Lamp Oil

Chapter: 4

Before each mission, I always go to the Drunken Sail Tavern. It is a nasty cocktail of pickpockets and thieves and murderers, but if the right rules are followed, and if cheap tricks are stowed away, then navigating through the sleazy crowds can be as easy as wading through warm water. Now, rules do not guarantee safety, as these people are dangerous, and every once in a while a few tables turn (quite literally). But it is just because they are dangerous that these people are the perfect target for the kind of information I am looking for. I obviously could not find the best way to steal from a goody-two-shoes.

To get in, one only has to know the right words, something that can only be obtained by already having connections. It is the best way to keep criminals in the loop and the government out of it. To illustrate the solidity of the system, the Drunken Sail has a black market history of about fifty years, and throughout the government has yet to be notified of its scandalous behaviors. I pity the fool who tries to tattle on the Drunken Sail.

I wait until night to go to the tavern, looking over my shoulder every once in a while for shady fellows. The tavern is on a cliff by the sea, and as I trek past the beach, nightly sprays of salty water hit the air as warm mist, making the dark look slightly illuminated by the tiny droplets of water. The cool air chills me to the bone, as my silky red dress exposes both my legs and shoulders. Although it disgusts me to wear such alluring clothes, it will be necessary to succeed tonight.

It is nearly midnight when I stop in front of the entrance, a large round door with a little opening near the top. The opening is covered by a thin metal slat that can slide open and close, allowing the overseer to monitor who comes in and when they do. Along the side of the door, a heavy artillery of locks and chains peep through the lighted up cracks in the entrance, only able to be unlocked from the inside. Walking up to the door, I knock three times. The sound resonates through the wood.

There are muffled footsteps to the door, and the metal slat slides to the side with a sharp squeak. Light leaks out from the opening, and two grungy eyes appear, looking down at me with shrewd familiarity. The man asks,

"The night blossoms when?" I sigh, exasperated at yet another riddle.

"The night blossoms when the sea is ripe. Oh spare me the riddle next time, Akshan, you know it's me." The slat closes, clicking in place. Then the clanks and clangs of metal rolling into key holes and unfurling the locks are heard in the darkness outside. The door finally opens, and Akshan, a wide shouldered, balding man walks out, shaking the ground with each step. He is possibly the most menacing man in the tavern, with his great lumbering height that makes him look like a small ogre, and with his piercing eyes that see through anyone as if they were a ghost, no matter how sly they are, which is probably how he ended up with his job as the Overseer. But Akshan is not a mere piece of brawn material. He is good friend of mine. His arms are folded and he looks at me with a warm gaze in his creased eyes.

"Rules are rules, Little Sun, whether you like them or not." He steps aside, bowing in mock reverence, leaving me space to pass by. I walk through, smiling up at the large man, and enter the hunting ground. Crowds of people saunter past one another, forming small groups, or sitting along, seething in their marked territories. Tables are situated in every corner of the tavern, hidden by deep maroon curtains, so to lend privacy to secret deals. Scantily dressed women, scarcely in more than undergarments, flaunt their curves at a few of these tables, and on the stage in the middle of the room in a wild exotic dance. Some of the women hook their arms and legs around the well known dealers, most who smile gaily at this endeavor.

At first glance, some of the dealers appear relaxed, as if they have nothing to hide. Those are the more experienced ones, who know that frustration shows weakness and attracts predators in the tavern. I adopt a similar pose, shoulders slightly lowered, chin slightly down, walking at a slow pace. The predators are like sharks, looking for pitiful creatures in need of a loan or ecstasy, the easy to manipulate, scared looking ones. I would prefer not to be the prey in a place like this.

I walk along the sides of the tavern, avoiding eye contact. Then I sit at the bar table, my exposed leg crossed over the other, beckoning the Bar Tender to me with a finger and a seductive smile. The poor boy steps tentatively to me with a shaky hand carrying a vile concoction of beer, his eyes widening when I purse my lips and flutter my eyelashes shyly at him. The Bar Tender is a young, maybe in his mid-teens, and his hair is light and unkempt, giving him the look of a scared lamb. This should be easy. At first he flinches when I raise a hand to stroke his freckled cheek, but soon he settles into the feel of it. I say in a quiet voice,

"Give me your best beer. I need something to wet my mouth with." The boy sighs dreamily, his short fluffy hair sticking up like baby chicken, and walks to the alcohol shelf, searching for one of the better beers. I use this time to take a look around the tavern.

"This is the best one I have tonight." A small voice interrupts me. The boy leans over the counter, pouring the beer into two crystal glasses, his nose slightly red from anticipation. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his mouth curling into an excited smile. Oh, by the Gods! He thinks I like him. But for now, that might be for the best. He brings over the glasses and sets one down for me, while taking a large swig out of the other. Hiccupping from the drink, the boy stares at me with elated wonder with strange sea colored eyes.

He gasps in surprise, nearly dropping his drink when I reach up and grip his collar, fingering the buttons on his shirt, and pulling him closer to my face. With my supple mouth tracing his jaw line, I croon,

"I'm in need of assistance. I bet you have all the answers. Would you like to help me out?" The tips of the boy's ears turn bright red, partly from the alcohol and partly from my fingers slowly caressing his cheek and nose. He mumbles through my painted nails,

"Y-yes, what do you need, miss?" I smile. He has taken the bait, so now all I have to do is fish him out with a winning line. I draw back from him suddenly and lose my tight grip on his shirt. Then I take his hand in mine and say,

"I need a man with information, fast." I sniff, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I feel my cheeks beginning to pink, as tears drip off them in overdone waterfalls. The boy ducks forward to stare at me worriedly,

"What's wrong miss?" I gasp slightly, biting a nail, raising my lashes, and stuttering,

"I-it's my sister. She's been stolen by the king's guard to become part of the royal harem," I squeeze my eyes shut in what looks like emotional pain, and grip the boy's hand tightly,

"It's impossible to get her back... B-but I just can't leave her there. It's alright if I have to go alone, because all I really need is a map and the guard schedules. I just don't know who to ask!" Lowering my head, my bare shoulders shake. The boy winces at my apparent agony, face flashing with unknown expressions. Then he grabs both my hands and leans forward with a newfound passion, his blue eyes bright and full of self confidence, almost as if he were a different person. He whispers urgently,

"Do you want your sister back?" Taken aback, I ask,

"What?" He says again,

"Do you want your sister back?"

"Yes," I say, unsure. Then with more confidence,

"Yes I do."