The Kettle Black. At last. It stood before him now, in the oncoming twilight. No doubt it was closing or already closed for business, but he did not care. Karo had come too far to leave and return the next day.

It had taken him a good long while to even gain entry into Vienda--the damn writ was hell itself to acquire and Karo was not certain of its quality. It did no good to fuss. Something about Vienda put him ill at ease; the galdori, the Seventen breathing down his neck, everything. The people here were wretched, the humans cowed and the wicks coarse as chroves. And the chroves. He could live out the remainder of his years without seeing or smelling another chrove and it would be too many for him.

Tired of standing in the rain, Karo opened the door. He stood in the threshold, scowling at what he found inside, no matter what it was. Such was his character; stern, disapproving and aloof.

"Pardon," he said, politely. He was always polite at first. "I am looking for the business and residence of Mr. Caiaphas Spindle. Is this the Kettle Black, and have I found him within?"

“What th' fff--”

Mr. Caiaphas Spindle was to be found within. However. It was after six, and it was on the fives. When it was after six on the fives, Mr. Caiaphas Spindle was settling into his weekly bath.

Cai plucked the cigar from his teeth, but left the wet cloth over his eyes and his head on the rim of the tub where they were.

“Jeremiah!” he called. Jer was upstairs, or in the kitchen, or somewhere. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he probably wasn’t naked and up to his neck in lye water.

A slip of silence, a bit too long.

“Jer! Get the clockin’ door!”

Nothing.

Caiaphas snorted and tore the towel off his face, slapping it wetly onto the floor. What in all the Circle could someone want after hours? A shout of ‘can’t ye read?’ might be in order, only that a majority of The Dives couldn’t read. He’d have to get better about locking that damn door.

“Jus’ a clockstoppin’ moment!” he called to the smithy proper, sloshing out of the tub. He champed the cigar in his teeth as a towel was found, and Cai scrubbed himself off haphazardly before sticking his head out the washroom door jamb -- propped open by the trusty tea kettle -- and peering into the smithy proper.

“Yeah ‘n’ yeah,” he growled, eyeing up the strange thing on his threshhold. “What the hell do ye want with ‘im?”

Karo raised an eyebrow. It might be worth it to come back tomorrow after all, but alas it was probably already too late for that. He disdained to be remembered as the fellow who interrupted . . . something.

"Forgive me if I have intruded at an inopportune moment," he said crisply. "My name is Karo Argand. My father was Terrol "The Terror" Argand. You may have heard of him, his associates and their work. Certainly they have heard of Mr. Spindle's."

Karo paused. Even now, he could imagine his father looting and plundering, though he was not quite sure where he might be. Karo had not heard from his sire since he had crossed paths with him in Bethas. There had been strong words and shots fired. Family life in the Black Hand was oft-times volatile.

"My father spoke very highly of the work of Cyrus Spindle," he continued. "I happen to be in need of a man with similar talent and disposition. It is by his recommendation that I sought out the Kettle Black."

In a very technical sense, Karo amended in his mind.

That was another matter entirely. Something he’d have to put clothes on for, even. Cai didn’t say anything at first, just ducked his head back inside the washroom. He wriggled back into his pants with utmost alacrity. From the get go he didn’t like this wick-thing, whatever or wherever he was from. Dark as a nut, dark haired. Must be one of those topsy Mug things, over-educated fish too cozy with the idea of unlocked doors. Explains why he didn't knock.

Tugging on a shirt, Cai tried to keep from looking too surprised, too excited, too anything. When he padded out into the foyer at last, cigar still perched smoldering but lit, nothing but pinch-eyed suspicion showed.

"Ye'd think yer da woulda recommended ye knock, kov," The tek was sharp already, a jibe in itself. "...'cause men of a similar disposition can get awful jumpy."

The hackles were up already, though he was smiling that unflappable Cai-smile. Warm and broad and slightly bitey.

"Gotta say, times bein' how they is, sir?" The smoke cocked in damp fingers, head cocked in something like curiosity. "Talkin' all slick an' jent-y like that does right t'make a man bristle all suspicious-like, ye chen?"

Karo waited quietly as Mr. Spindle dressed. He breathed in deeply and recalled his times tables--it helped him remain dignified and patient. When Mr. Spindle returned, Karo listened to his rough little speech with a perfect, untouchable scowl. Oh, this one was cut out of his father's same cloth, he was.

"What my 'da' taught me is debatable, but that is a conversation suited for another day," Karo said, shrugging dismissively. "I'm sure he would have taught me to lock my front door, if I had one to lock. And how I prefer speak is my own business."

Karo opened his ugly carpet bag and produced a folio of papers covered in neat script and several illustrative drawings. He passed them to Mr. Caiaphas Spindle, hoping that he would show the good sense to keep the cigar away.

"I believe you will come to find it irrelevant, should you deign to take this . . . commission. My professional needs are not met by my current armaments. I have reason to think that this will suit me, much, much better."

A plume of smoke hissed through Cai's teeth as he looked over the diagrams. His fingers dappled the parchment in damp, so did the droplets beading off his shaggy wet hair. His chest felt tense, his eyes went bright. Cai held the cigar away from his mouth before he spoke again.

"Dunno how irrelevant," his voice went jagged over the fancy multi-syllable word, sparked with warm contempt, "struttin' in here talkin' like a godsdamn toffin erse jent is. Throwin' these kinda...plans in my face like it ent no big thing?" He closed the folio with a damp slap, sharp gaze darting back to the strange wick-thing.

"It smacks of, y'know, really clockin' clumsy Uncle Brigk work. If ye ask me. Ye think they coulda gotten some a lil bit more..." he rolled his eyes to the rafters, sharp smile broadening, "...shit, I dunno. Subtle."

Under all the suspicion and contempt, however, there was a strong flicker of interest. Crafting all these tea kettles, all these riffs, all these horse shoes day after day wore on the nerves. Mundane and damnable, all of it. This, however...Cai glanced back to papers in his hands, tonguing his teeth, eyeing them like a dog on a meatbone.

"What I'm sayin' is, kov," Cai chuckled darkly, leaning heavier against the counter. "I don't know you from Azmus himself. Why in all the godsdamn Circle should I believe you ent some golly bitchboy slinkin' about on yer belly? I ask ye kindly."

Fourteen elevens is one hundred and fifty four. Fifteen elevens is one hundred and sixty five . . .

Karo restrained his temper. He felt that he must deserve some sort of accolade or plaque with his name on it, under a bust of this incredibly aggravating individual. But it was true. And Mr. Spindle was not the first to voice concerns as to his loyalties, or origins. Many people did not think that he was a professional until the last unfortunate minute. It had been useful for moling, but not when he wanted to be taken seriously. He sighed, and set down his carpet bag.

He reached into his greatcoat and produced a pistol, holding it so that his finger was not on the trigger, despite it being unloaded. It was made based on the work of Cyrus Spindle, a copy of an older gun. Someone, not him, had stamped a little hand into the handle. The wick who had made it was illiterate, but used the tribal symbol as his maker's mark, which Karo displayed to Mr. Caiaphas Spindle prominently. The Black Hand had smiths, but Karo did not like testing Terrol's goodwill and paternal feelings if he found him. Terrol had the original, and it still worked just fine.

"I do not bear this for the pleasure of looking at it," Karo said sternly. "I have no interest in soothing your fears, Mr. Spindle. I have even less in subtlety, which is something I doubt you rub elbows with often. 'Uncle Brigk' might send you a little bitchboy to lure you, perhaps a 'toffin erse jent' like me, instead of a grizzled, liquor-swilling thug who speaks from his arsehole, but they would not arm him, they would not make him dangerous. I would do this myself, if I did not lack the skills and equipment."

Karo returned the gun to its holster and pulled his coat tight around him again. He reached to snatch back the folio as well, fatigued with this insufferable man.

Cai's smile was like one of those morning glory flowers, the kind that bloom in fast motion. Maybe he was too old to feel nervous about being shot at anymore. It would have been a welcome change of pace, anyhow. The only spark of anxiety he showed was the swift glance he shot to the ceiling, to the staircase -- to Jer, really, wherever he'd gotten off to.

He held the folio out of Karo's grasp and flicked it open again, grinning beatifically.

"Guess ye do know 'ow t'speak my language then, ah?" his voice had mellowed just a tad, a hint of heat fading. He bowed his head, for a moment. For Cyrus, not for Karo. "Glad to see the old balach's name is still gettin' 'round. You ran with the Black Hand then, didja jenty?" 'Jenty' was the strange looking thing's name for now, until Cai could bother to ask for it. Which he probably wouldn't.

"Thinkin' I know plenty more 'bout subtlety than ye do, jenty. Y'know, not totin' pistols under me armpits all through this damn city. All sweet an' remembery-like as it'd be. ....I swear, ye must have friends in high places somewheres, if Uncle hasn't strung ye up by yer sack yet." He quirked a brow, cocking his head. "Ye must be new around here, godsdamn. Or jus' plum moony."

Cai rounded the counter with the folio and laid it out flat on the scratched up stone, glancing over the papers dryly as if he was perusing a ladies fashion quarterly -- he ignored any pages of notes, couldn't read them anyway. But pictures were nice, Cai could work with pictures. The cigar bobbed in his mouth as he ground it with his teeth.

"So," he ventured. "Hippocampusly, if'n I could craft such a thing -- an', hippocampusly, we're gonna say I can -- what kinda ging are we talkin', here? This business ent exactly easy 'r rightly legal, ye chen?" However, that rakish smile said nothing about worry for ease or legality. Mostly what it said was, I'm gonna fleece you to the bone.

"I did happen to give you my name, Mr. Spindle," Karo said crisply. "I was born to the Black Hand. And despite your misgivings, the Seventen have not yet managed to apprehend me, although I imagine they sorely would like to. I suppose that they are less wary of a jent than a tekaa. Ye chen."

Karo smiled. It was tight against his lips; he did not smile very often, and it looked painful. It was a good thing he did not carry loaded when he was not planning trouble, or there would be no second thoughts.

"But I understand that elderly men are fearful in their doings," Karo finished, dropping back into his scowl again.

He noticed the quick glance up, and wondered what that meant. Someone upstairs? A companion of some kind? He had heard that two men ran the Kettle Black, thought he only cared about one. A brother, perhaps, or a husband. Then he began to talk about money. That was expected, and Karo knew how to handle himself.

"That word does not mean what you think it means," Karo said dryly. "But if you were hypothetically able to craft such a thing, I would hypothetically be quite able to pay a reasonable sum. Money has never been any great concern of mine."

Karo sighed, then, and held out his hand for the paperwork. "But we are speaking in hypothesizes. Perhaps you are retired from this line of work. If so, I admit the fault, and would be happy to find another, obliging individual, still plying the trade."

Cai, again, neglected to hand the papers back.

"Godspeed an' good luck with that, kov," he replied blandly. "People who make such things...we ent exactly flourishin' like bunny rabbits, ye chen? Enjoy chasin' every godsdamn caravan from 'ere to the Marsh lookin' fer another one. Better yet findin' one who'll talk."

Cai knew he was old. He just had to be reminded sometimes. Cai was old, Cyrus Spindle was thirteen years dead, his brothers-sisters-cousins trained in such things all had bochi of their own now, and some of their bochi had bochi too. Gunsmithing must have, must have proliferated a bit. But the world couldn't have gone infested with them in two decades.

He narrowed his eyes across the counter. Cai's aggressive smile had flickered off; his lips were pinched wooden.

"An' the thing 'bout old men, y'know, is that they usually got a little more than jus' their own rotten selves t'be scared for. Unlike some," he added tersely.

And that was when Cai really wished he could stop his stupid eyes from flickering around the shop like that, no matter how fast they moved. They touched on his things, the tangible things littered around the smithy floor, things sitting in a frying pan in the kitchen, things napping upstairs oblivious. Less tangible things too, maybe. Things that couldn't fit in an ugly carpet bag.

"Ne, I ent abandoned nothin'. What I'm sayin' is, yer gonna hafta be a little more clear. I ent one to talk in fuzzy numbers. 'ow much issa godsdamn 'reasonable sum' t' ye?" Cai snapped the folio shut again and waggled it in the smoky air. "..'ow much is this worth t'ye, I shoulda said."

A concrete number, was it? No matter. He had the old man snared. Karo could see it in his eyes, and he could also see the weakness, the fear under his tough gutter talk. Karo did not mind that he had no back but his own painted one to look out for, it only made everything easier. Of course he wanted to live . . . but not this pathetic half-life, shifty-eyed and cautious. If Mr. Caiaphas Spindle turned him down, there was a fellow in Old Rose who was promising despite the lack of tribal connection.

Karo shrugged, and would have spit if he were not indoors. His mother had firm things to say about that practice. "For the piece made? Ten birds? Twenty? Fifty? Honestly, I thought that a fellow such as yourself would be more proactive in naming his price, if you are so fixated with numbers. But a few papers? Nothing. Even if you keep those scribblings, I have more paper."

A harsh bark of laughter, then.

“I don’t give a fuck about your paper, neither. I’m talkin’ in abstracts, kov. Hypothecaries, ye chen? The idea of the damn thing. The importance of yer 'business purposes',” Cai’s voice raked over those two words like hot coals, bordering on scathing, “an’ the like.”

He shoved the folio across the counter, sharp smile hitching back on his lips.

“Good t’see yer tossin’ around tha’ frilly pouf’s coin anyway, jenty. Tha’ sweet voice o’ yers still had me questionin’.” Of course he was just a tad nervous, some hatcher-toothed foreigner shuffling in here, waving a pistol about. Wherever Jer was, Cai hoped he’d stay there. For awhile. Cai’s dark eyes were flinty, narrowed to spear points.

“Hundred ‘n’ fitty,” he added beatifically, hissing out a plume of cigar smoke.

There was a phrase of his mother's, "Money is nothing if there isn't something to buy with it," that applied here. Karo did not smile or scowl any harder, but merely sighed and reached into his hideous bag and withdrew a small but heavy purse. It jangled with the combined loot of the Argand family misadventures, in both birds and conchords. His father must miss it by now; filial devotion had never been something he ever held for Terrol.

"Fifty here," Karo said. "The rest later. I expect, as was your grandfather's custom, a matched set and a supply of shot. Of course, if that is not to your liking, as always I am willing to leave and darken your door never again."

He placed a hand on the folio. Karo had thought long and hard about what he wanted from an armament; it would be aggravating to have to trek back to Old Rose.