The not-so humble house by the sea was hardly small by any means and yet its owner had never really bothered to fill most of its cavernous space with any particular furniture. In fact, the vast majority of the house was empty, well-kept and not dusty, but still empty. There were but a handful of rooms that seemed remotely occupied, and all of them had a brilliant view of the sprawling beach and crashing waves. It could be said that the rooms that didn't share the outlook were, perhaps, ignored on purpose.

Corwynn hardly used his sitting room, if only because he was never very good at sitting still. His usual guests were often not necessarily interested in conversation, either.

This evening was an exception, however. Tonight, the blond gunman was entertaining the company of a more distinguished visitor: his employer. It was an admittedly unusual visit, but one the galdor didn't mind making an exception for. Sure, Wavorly had no idea what to expect, but the wick pirate-turned-butler was generally reliable when it came to thinking on his toes.

Settled comfortably into the sitting room with overstuffed chairs in a rather stark sort of style, the rain outside had slowed enough to allow for a clear, though dreary, view of the gray ocean and gray clouds stretching across the Harbor. There were any number of options for alcoholic consumption, and it would be no effort for Corwynn to dig up any number of imported cigars if requested. Surely, he had some somewhere. Maybe.

Wavorly had wandered off to fetch glasses, leaving the two men to themselves.

"The situation," said Hawke slowly, savoring each word as though it were his last meal, "has become...vexing."

He had brought his own cigar, apparently, and it appeared ready-lit in his right hand. A ruby ring was nestled between his fore and ring fingers. On nights when the King preferred red, Corwynn knew something serious was about to be treated seriously, though his tone was as conversational and flippantly exasperated as ever.

With a muted popping sound, he puffed on the cigar, which was Hessean by the musk of it. "The individual given to us was worthless, though I have a feeling he knows far more than he is telling us. But as difficult as it is for me to put aside a favorite toy..."

He gazed briefly out the window, where a gagged, blindfolded and bloodied person was lashed to an upright piling. His arms were outspread, propped up by sticks like a sickening scarecrow.

"...our hands have been, regrettably, forced into more itinerant approaches." He leveled his gaze to Corwynn. "It is clear to me now that they are not based in Old Rose."

"Mmm," the blond galdor hummed thoughtfully through his nose, the weathered aristocracy of his features settling into an appropriately dour expression as he followed the wick's glance out his own window, "Recent events have led me to the same conclusions, unfortunately."

Even after over fifteen years, Corwynn never entirely knew how to handle serious conversation with the King of the Underground. It was one of those things you could try to prepare for but always keep in mind you'd end up surprised and off-guard. It didn't matter how often they'd spoken, either, as it was somehow different every time. While he'd never admit anything out loud, the gunman had long-since gone and dismissed the disquieting strangeness as something related to Hawke being a wick. Still, he anticipated that a bit of alcohol would definitely assist the situation in general, as usual.

"I might have some suggestions of where to go from here." He offered with a hint of calculated deviousness, tone of voice revealing he'd obviously spent some time considering whatever it was he had to say, "Neither of which are quite as—how can I put it?" he looked away from the rain on the window to meet Silas' gaze, "—conventional ... as the methods of research and prevention we've tried so far."

Silas arched a thin eyebrow at the galdor.

"Go on," he said languidly, wondering what Harbor business could be considered adherent to convention in any sense of the word.

Corwynn's idea of convention when it came to information gathering and solving particularly difficult problems usually involved blood and possibly sharp objects. He'd just come to the realization that reaching toward the bottom of the Drain may finally require some inside work, or at least an insider's perspective. With a rather nonchalant wave of his less-whole hand, the older galdor counted off his two current plans,

"Well, first, I think I have a way into the Drain." He cleared his throat and let a sly smile creep across his weathered, well-aged features, "In addition to a way onto a ship, I already have an informant. She'll need a contact ... someone not obvious, of course, but she's not a Brother. I suppose she's more of a personal project of mine, but one I believe we can trust."

As far as he knew, at least, Rosalie was trustworthy enough. Then again, perhaps her trustworthiness extended only so far as her debt for now.

"Second," the gunman continued, "I believe that highwayman Mister Rand will turn out to be most useful in apprehending a ship captain I happened to run across the name of. I hope that from whatever we manage to extract from him will help us find a place to stow our informant."

Corwynn arched a sun-touched brow curiously, watching Silas with a bit of interest as to his reaction. He hadn't really delved into the details of his plans, lest they be met with disapproval. Even if they were rather ripe to put into action, he still didn't want to attempt anything that didn't have the King's seal on them.

Silas' look was one of polite, placid contemplation, like a cat who is deciding whether or not to devour its food or play with it, and has hours in which to make the decision.

"You have used three words I dislike," he said finally. "Believe, trust, and hope. But you might have exaggerated your assurance in order to persuade me, my dear, so for your forthrightness I am most grateful."

He smiled, his expression complimentary; it said I know you are far too smart to lie to me, so this is our little joke.

"You have done well," he said, "or are about to do well, which is much the same, except for a great difference. But I don't like to put all my smuggled opium in the same basket, if you know what I mean..."

The King kicked back in the armchair, putting his boots up on the coffee table. They were distractingly shiny. With a labored sigh, he took a pull of his cigar, and sent a wobbly ring of smoke meandering across the table to Corwynn.

"Or two baskets, I suppose that's two baskets," he added presently. "Which is far better than one, all in all, I think. But I think I prefer four. And it came to me that the reason the Drain is so damnably good at hiding is because we necessitate it; our random sweeps and searches cause them to think up new and clever ways to conceal themselves, ways that take time, money...I know, you see, for I used to operate in shadow myself..." He gazed off into space for a moment. "...we need to make them feel safe."

Corwynn happened to appreciate the effect a decent pair of well-maintained, skillfully shined shoes had on a person, and, in this particular situation, found Silas' footwear at least a hint of comfort. It might have been at least a hint of sanity, for the galdor had always assumed one of the marks of true insanity was a lack of care for good hygiene or appearances. So, at least, he had that much going for him. He still found the wick more than occasionally confusing. Regardless, at least the King was actually appearing to enjoy landing on the same page as himself.

"At this point, we don't have much opium to put in any baskets, and those clogs must surely be smug and secure for the moment, considering their sudden shocking success." He finally smirked, no hint of humor or usual sarcasm in his voice, "I can't promise four baskets yet, but we have two. Our former highwayman will be performing the first part of this operation ... well ... in two days, actually." The older galdor grinned wolfishly, revealing to his employer that he'd had wheels in motion for quite sometime, despite not necessarily properly asking permission. Either he'd assumed he'd be met with approval or he'd long since settled into the knowledge that it was easier to ask forgiveness once things were said and done.

"His results will decide when the left hook of my plan will fall into place, depending on how creatively your Yulina can bleed some key words out of the captain Mister Rand apprehends in the process. Then, my informant will establish herself on board a genuine Drain ship and we'll see where the winds carry us from there."

Wavorly returned with some lovely, long-stemmed crystal glasses and some recently-dusted off bottle from the cellar. The label was faded, but the mark that still remained was recognizably noteworthy. The pirate-turned-butler offered the tray with his typical roguish grin,

"Something to grease the conversation along, gentlemen?"

Silas Hawke flicked a hooded eye to the side to inspect the bottle. Satisfied that it was old enough to where the label was unreadable, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

"On a more pleasant subject," he said, loathe to speak of Drain matters when the help was in the room, "Our witches have a birthday coming up, did you know? I've planned them a little something. I'm sure at least one of them would love for you to attend, Corinth."

There was something reedily mocking about his voice, and a playful glint shone in his eye. Whether the use of his first name was intentional or not, it was for sure that Hawke rarely misspoke, and an allusion to Corwynn's former life as a high society golly could not have been an accident.

"I was planning a trip to Vienda," he said, "just a little jaunt in the old country, bit of stale air, for my health. Do you still have that manor of yours, by any chance? It's always a devil of a time to find lodging during Loshis, when all the taverns are full to the brim with listless drunks."

Wavorly filled glasses wordlessly once given permission, but he was unable to contain a chuckle at Hawke's comment and timely use of his ex-Captain's real name. His grinned a little and took his leave without the bottle, waiting until he'd meandered down the hall a bit to laugh.

The blond galdor snorted, smirking unapologetically at his employer's obvious reference to a few of his extra-curricular activities with fellow employees, "Well, I'm never one to miss a party, and far be it from me to ever leave any woman, Henchwitch or not, dissatisfied."

With a laugh, he paused for a drink. If the use of his given name bothered him, Corwynn kept it out of his expression for the moment. When he spoke again, however, the edge of his voice was not directed at Silas,

"Vienda? This time of year ...? It's really not the season, but if you insist on going, my family's house should still be standing. Our Mugrobi swordswoman was making use of it for some rather pressing personal business, which I believe included sleeping with my help, but since I haven't heard anything otherwise, I think it's safe to assume neither of them have gone and burned it down. I might have to come along and make sure ..."

He loathed the thought of going home, but it seemed like a timely enough opportunity to pay a surprise visit to an old friend, or enemy, as it was ... whichever he could really consider Oren. Plus, there was the potential bonus of seeing Amani again, regardless of her choice of in-town recreational activities with his housekeeping staff of one.

"Unless, of course, you're hoping for privacy, too. You know you don't have to ask to stay at my estate—" Corwynn had learned over the years that hardly any of the mysterious wick's topics of conversation were entirely by chance, "Is there something you've heard that I haven't?"

"Many things," said Silas evenly. "For example, did you know the titmouse's call contains more "dees" when danger is more apparent? I heard that recently. I also heard that you may be in the market for a fresh servant."

He lowered his glass of wine and fixed Corwynn with a mellow stare.

"Then again, dear heart," he said quietly, "involving Seventen in harbor affairs is quite the unusual approach, so it's bound to have its downsides. Don't feel badly. But a word of advice? You're quite good at getting women out of their clothes, if my memory serves me well; perhaps you should compel future brigk sweethearts to step out of uniform before your sword girl brings them to your home. It wouldn't do to have others getting curious, now, would it."

The king didn't sound annoyed, merely amused.

There were any number of particularly choice, obviously sea-worthy strings of expletives that the older galdor had at his disposal, but, surprisingly enough, he chose to sit in silence. The shock value was enough that Corwynn had to take a moment to process, to separate humor from truth in the tones of the wick's voice. Weathered lines in his aristocratic features came together in a scowl over the rim of his glass,

"Well, someone's been busier than me."

The gunman managed to speak evenly, though he was much more displeased than amused. Oren really had his rough side, but surely he didn't go getting himself in too much trouble. Maybe not. Seventen? Oh, that was just clocking wrong. Surely even Amani would've known better than that ... right? To Corwynn, it all sounded like a godsbedamned mess, if not something potentially embarrassing, regardless of the humor in Silas' presentation.

He made a guttural noise of frustration and leaned back in his chair, gears still turning through possibilities, "I suppose I should be asking how many days I need to pack for and when we'll be leaving?"

"Better bring a heavy coat," said Silas, a catlike smile creeping up the corners of his cheekbones. "It's dreadfully rainy inland."