Rafe Sellaphix was alone as he approached the last tavern on the list. Normally the Seventen didn't do anything solo anymore, not since a month ago when Seventen insides were more often found on their outsides. But it just wasn't always possible to send a whole team out when all that was to be done was a cursory look-over to make sure everyone was complying with the prohibition. It was an easy, tedius detail. And Ensign Sellaphix had earned it. Earned it by showing up from a search warrant with a cart full of confiscated blacksmithing materials. Nevermind that they were the makings of guns or not, Sellaphix had been reprimanded for turning a simple search into a heaping pile of metal and paperwork. So he was now off Gun Smuggling and on Booze Detail.

In all honesty, Rafe couldn't see the big deal. Just because booze was now illegal for humans didn't mean they'd stop drinking it. He just hoped they had enough respect to hide it. And most of the taverns he'd been to already had done just that. They'd put on a gorgeous guise of law-abiding citizenry. They'd bowed and showed him their empty kegs and he'd been able to sign them off. No trouble for him, no trouble for them.

He dismounted his chrove outside the last stop of the day, the Clockwork Stag. He was deep in the Soot and it was getting dark and the Stag didn't look very inviting. There was laundry hanging from the second floor and the creaking sign was barely legible. There was still that smell that loafed over this part of the city. There was also the disquieting sensation of hearing many voices but not feeling any aura.

At the door he took the handle in his hand and pulled. He furrowed his brow and cursed. He pulled again, hard, and again found no give. He was about to pull a third time when the door handle pulled away from his grasp as the door swung into the pub and a human woman slipped past him.

Who the hell hangs a door backwards...? he thought, annoyed.

"Oi! Seventen!" The woman who'd left the pub had called back into the Stag, announcing Rafe's arrival. He saw eyes move to him, and people jerk up out of their seats. A couple of patrons left then and there, but most of them kept their seats when they saw Ensign Sellaphix was alone.

He went straight to the bar and rapped on the counter. "Need a word with the owner!" he announced.

Vicka almost dropped the tray when she heard the woman's voice call out a warning. She turned her head and got an eyeful of that awful coat. Her heart stuttered to a stop for a moment, and then she retrieved herself. Oh, good lady, she thought. He's probably just come to check up on us. Good clocking lady.

She straightened, setting the platter laid out with a bowl of their Jane's good mutton stew and a mug full of steeping tea. The patron that paid for it had disappeared. At least he had shown them hard square coin before dusting. They did not make the same business with tea, no they did not. Vicka hesitated, trying to find the words.

"He's in the back," she mumbled. "I'll get him."

Vicka did not have dealings with brigk. She avoided them fastidiously for many reasons: she was a witch, her field was developed for 'one of her kind,' and she knew that arrest did not always lead to an ending that anyone found out about. Her knees were almost entirely water. She steadied herself surreptitiously on a few chair backs as she stumbled to the back kitchen door. She stuck in her head.

"Mr. Oranos!" she called, quietly at first. "Gannon, there's a Seventen here. Wants to see you."

Green wine and thick cigars.

That was all Cai had to dive in these past few days. And he was burrowed in both quite magnificently – absolutely steeped in Hanged Man wine and wreathed in the purple smoke of a spur he was determined on killing quick as three before. The smithy was stripped bare, Jer was stalking about the house like bitten tomcat, and his dear old Toy Lantern pub had been razed by brigk bastards (for being so boozey and wickish besides; a few dear rosh and balach got carted away writless, so said the grapevine). No solace to be had anywhere these days.

The only bar still up doling out the slosh was The Clockwork Stag.

The commotion set Cai’s shoulders stiffening, even from way back in the dim-lit boondocks of his corner table. He would’ve moved out too – no sense bringing anymore trouble down on their heads, that’s how Jer would’ve wanted it – until he heard that voice. Creeping up into his ears like an army of ants, that. The jumpy prick from a few days back, then. A quick eye flashed about the bar and saw no bulky underling scuttling after him this time. Jumpy little prick all alone in the black belly of The Dives, in a bar stuffed with drunken natt and tsat. Cai cast Vicka a wary eye. The fool’s nerves must be so shot he’d fly off with flames and lightning spells at the wrong flit of a skirt.

So when Vi skittered off to the back all spooked rabbit-like, it was almost enough to drag him up and spitting from his corner. But of course there was Jer – always Jer lingering somewhere in the back of his head, though it seemed to get fainter everyday – Jer muttering things like, Now I don’t want no trouble, Officer...

Cai wasn’t sure if he wanted trouble or not. Not sure yet, anyhow. He took a long drag on his spur and hissed out a fresh plume of smoke.

Cai would wait, Cai would watch.

Jane heard the commotion before she saw it. She heard the yell of "Seventen" and a rush as people went out the door. On hearing the word Seventen, everything seized up in Jane. She stopped stirring the soup is was creating, and her eyes widened. Her stomach turned and did flips while she tried to hold her composure.

You wanted to get back at the gollies Jane. You're going to have to deal with Seventen sooner or later.

Her own pep talks weren't always of the best of use. She breathed heavily. She'd have to get used to Seventen. She was in a tavern during the prohibition, they were bound to come sooner or later. And Resistance work - something Jane was adamant that she'd join - would require Seventen appearances every now and then.

In order to find out what is going on, Jane walked out of the kitchen, a tray of stews to be delivered to customers held aloft. As she walked out of the kitchen, she walked behind the bar and in front of said Seventen Officer. He wasn't a frightening figure, but Jane glanced a little way towards him as she passed. Jane could field his field as she passed. It was a strange feeling. She delivered the customers their food and returned to the kitchen as fast as seemed normal.

Upon entering the kitchen once again, Jane tossed the tray on the bench with a clatter. She lent on the bench, her head on her elbows. It was just too much. Too much stress. Now, the Seventen were here. Alioe... Jane sighed and lifted her head, dusting herself off.

Gannon heard Vicka's call where he sat down in the cellars. His slashed up chair down there felt as comfortable as a hornet's nest, but at least he was out of sight and away from people. Worst thing was to feel useless and be around people. So he'd slunk down there early afternoon with nothing but the blue glow of a phosphor lantern to light the path traveled by the bottle of Bastian whiskey from where it rested in his hand on the arm rest to his mouth.

Vicka's first call wouldn't have shaken him from a light nap, but her next words set his whiskey-slowed blood on the burner.

Seventen.

Thoughtfully, Gannon blinked in the darkness, his black eye near set aglow in the gloom by the lantern light. He wasn't drunk, no, not yet. But he had enough of the Bastian brew in his system to make him think in a direction a rational him might regret. Galdori had taken a family, two homes, an eye, and the old exuberant hope of his younger days.

And now they would take his livelihood.

Gannon rising from his chair, taking the lantern to hand and the bottle in the other, was a significant movement. Like the shift of a boulder. He tromped to the stairs and then up them. Upon reaching the top, he set on the kitchen floor both lamp and drink, and leaned leaned his head against an elbow, looking up at Vicka.

Gods, she was a peach. The expression he wore switched from set resolution to a twinge of hurt. Then back again.

His words were careful and low. "Vi...I want you to get everone out." His look became pointed. "An' I mean everone... I want you t' keep Jane away from that bastard. Far away as you can from this place.... Don't come back till when y' usually do in th' day...."

The barkeep paused a moment longer and then finished with: "An'...--" sudden emotion stabbed his throat. He cleared it, forcing himself through before the liquid courage was burned out by reason. "An' nip on up t' Augustine Pottery an' tell th' owner t' stay home. That's an important one, y'hear...? Promice me."

Vicka closed the kitchen door behind her and eyed the bottle nervously as she digested the fact that Mr. Oranos was asking her to clear out the Stag, like the floor of an arena. Like he was getting ready for a fight. Vicka didn't like gollies and she was downright afraid of the Seventen, but something in her half wanted to stay and put her own shoulder to it--or keep Mr. Oranos from doing something stupid. She nodded, winding her finger through the brass ring on her neck. Vicka was not thinking about the last time.

"Don't be rash, Mr. Oranos," she said quickly. Vicka could not reach to kiss his cheek, so she tapped two fingers to her lips and then to his face. "Good luck. C'mon Jane, help me roust everyone."

Vicka motioned to Jane to follow her, walking back into the front. She looked to the golly, steeling her nerves. "Mr. Oranos'll see you in a moment, sir. He's closing down early."

She turned to the room at large. Vicka usually liked being the center of attention, but now she just felt terrified and gawked at and borne into, like there was a hole burning into her now. "You all hear that? Stag's closed up tonight! Get up and dust, that's right!"

Vicka clapped a few times loudly, and near shook a kov out of his chair before people started taking her seriously.

It always seemed to take a little too long with certain breeds of human. These in the Soot seemed to take too long on purpose, just as those wicks back at the blacksmiths had purposefully drug their feet about writs and answering questions.

He leaned on the bar impatiently and looked around. Nearly all eyes were on him, or trying to steal glances. And the Ensign was looking at their ugly clay mugs that were certainly not filled with milk. This wasn't going to be as easy as the others. They weren't even trying to hide their alcohol. Hopefully he could speak with the owner who'd show the proper respect by offering a bribe. Rafe'd knock him in the head for it, but it was the right thing for a human to do when he was so plainly flouting the law. He'd fine him, bust up his kegs, smash his bottles and check back in a week. If losing all that money didn't teach the humans to keep their head low, Rafe'd be returning with a crew big enough to make a mass arrest. And that would be bad for business. Good business was keeping your business.

As he went over the coming troubles in his head, rehearsing what was becoming rote, a human carrying a tray passed in front of him. The Engisn followed her with his eyes. She was staring aweful hard and he made an impatient face back at her.

After she disappeared back into the kitchen it was another few moments before he finally got a response out of these degenerates. He straightened up and made ready to meet with the owner Oranos.

But then the wick bartender started rousting out the clientelle. Shuffling them out the door as if was closing time.

"What's this, then?" he demanded loudly. "What's this clocking parade, eh?"

He moved to Vicka and took her by the arm. "You people normally close up at sundown? Enough of this show. Let's have the owner, please, unless he hasn't snuck out with the rest of this rabble."

He turned his attention to the human woman who'd been staring at him. He snapped his fingers at her, still holding the wick.

"You work here - let's have the owner. Move!"

"I'm staying. Jane said, he expression hard. No way was she letting this barbaric golly Seventen scare her away. Even though her stomach did a back flip as she said it, she didn't want to leave. But, Vicka and Gannon thought otherwise.

She followed Vicka out into the main room. After Vicka bellowed out to the customers, Jane continued with a yell of "You heard her! Everyone out!" There were few people in Stag tonight, either staying their for Janes food or for mugs of ale passed between people without a word. It was a quiet night; the regulars had already cleared off.

Jane heard the Seventen Officer behind her as the last few patrons shuffled out.


When he grabbed Vicka and snapped his fingers in Janes face, Jane had to hold her composure to stop going off at the man. Be careful Jane. But, she couldn't hold her anger at this man.

She trudged over to where he stood with Vicka, and pushed his hand off Vickas arm.
"Let go of her! As she said, the owner will be out to speak to you in a minute."
Janes eyes were like iron, and she stared at the man once again.

Vicka felt sick under the pressure of the officer's field. It was much stronger than any wick's field. His grip on her arm was tight but not unbearable. Vicka took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She glared at Jane.

"Jane," Vicka said, sternly. "I'm fine. Fetch Mr. Oranos for the officer like a good girl, ye chen?"

She glanced up at the ceiling, her eyes flicking up and then back for only a second. A few days ago Ted had gone up to repair something and had only made it worse, knocking a clocking hole in the floor. Mr. Oranos didn't know about it yet, since Ted had begged so her and Jane not to tell just yet; Vicka had thrown one of the threadbare rugs over it and thought no more since a beam partially obscured it from downstairs. You had to be looking to see it. Hopeful Jane would understand.

The stream of people to the door didn't rouse him, but that Seventen boy getting handsy did. Bless her heart, that one, setting her face like stone. Bless that little nattle too, showing her tiny teeth. He was up and swaggering -- and staggering, just a bit. The floor tilted under his feet, but his glower was steady.

Jer said he was a stupid old man, going out armed with times how they is. How he wasn't twenty-three anymore, not even thirty, shouldn't go starting trouble with young buck things. But wine made him thirty, twenty-three, seventeen. Young or old as he wanted to be.

Besides. The Seventen lad had started it. Cai just wanted a piece of finishing it.

"Vrunta! What's 'is filthy business 'ere?" Stemming against the tide of people to the bar, he was somehow still so loud over the din. Every drop of wine made Cai a decibel more obnoxious, that had been a proposed theory. "Keep yer scummy pondie 'ands off me niece, if yer fixin' t'keep 'em on yer wrists." He posted up against the bar on Vicka's other side. One hand skimmed the pommel of the sword belted at his hip, a cigar cocked in the other. He peered down at the Seventen with eyes like spear points.

A proper little vanguard, Vicka was collecting. Everybody liked our Vi.

"Ye ent got no business with girls. The plowfoot ye need is prolly tryin' to squeeze 'is fat erse out the winder right about now. I'll put a notice in for 'im, though." Cai's splintery gaze darted to the back, into the depths behind the bar.

"Hoi, nattle!" he roared to the deeper recesses of the bar, smile wicked. "Get yer erse out 'ere afore I flay ye neck t' navel! This bastard is gettin' handsy!"

Not squeezing out a window, no. Not that. Gannon was already out of the cellar, in the kitchen. Behind the door. Roxanne hadn't been against his leg and he'd fetched her from the hook where she'd been hung. He secured her about his waste when Cai began calling.

Handsy. Clear enough description, clear enough image in Gannon's head of some vicious Seventen with a strangle-hold on Vicka. Or Jane. Bile crawled on sick fingers up Gannon's throat. A hatrid burned in his chest and it was only faster fueld by the alcohol in his system.

Gannon opened the kitchen door so hard a wooden wall panel cracked.

There was no grabbing hand, not right now. But there had been. Gannon's eye shot to Rafe. Never noted Cai or even Vicka or Jane. Just the enemy in his home.

His voice came out as a low and restrained animal. "Thought y' might wanna' chat n' private, officer.... So." Gannon's nostrils flared.

"Now."

When Sellaphix grabbed the wick, that human woman who'd been eyeballing him stomped over to intervene. He glared at her with a scowl and put a hand to the Seventen club on his belt. He had half a mind to settle these people down and quick. They were bold as bronze monkeys starting a fit over nothing.

Luckily the wick barmaid seemed to have a head on her shoulders, and he let go of her.

When another voice joined the fray, Ensign Sellaphix whirled his gaze around. He squinted at the face of a drunk wick staggering towards them. He recognized the face from somewhere. But whoever he was, he was patting the blunt end of a sword in a very pointed way, so out came the Ensign's long, thin club.

"Try it, dimglow. Try it," he warned with an angry hiss. He shook his head. A Seventen solo prioritized his own safety and would go bats and belfries if someone got rowdy and he didn't have back up.

But before things could get any worse, they finally made some progress. A giant beast of a human exploded from the kitchen, and from the look of him, he'd been involved in a great many disfiguring explosions. And on his hip, another sword. A bloody cleaver.

"Finally."

Rafe cracked his club hard against the bar and pushed past the male wick, still trying to pair a name or some detail to his familiar face.

"You're Oranos?" the Ensign surmised. "Ensign Sellaphix, Seventen. This should be quick if you'd all just be good little boys and girls and be calm," he said with firm impatience.