The Black Salamander is a high-class establishment, and Stefano fancies himself high-class.
He looks up from his book at where most of the noise is coming from. Amid the swathes of black gauze hung in lavish crescents from booth to booth, a group of young men are gathered around the dragoncard table, telling crude jokes and rolling with laughter. Every now and then mead sloshes across the table and the laughter raises an octave.
They're nobles, by the look of them. Stefano knows the difference. New money - land barons, merchant princes, crime lords - like to dip themselves in gold before they step outside; they flaunt what they have accrued. Those whose nobility comes from heritage rather than commerce bear their riches as a matter of fact. These men wear richly-made velvet and satin, but wear it modestly, hanging from their forms with a casual air that speaks to aristocracy. But that's good, Stefano thinks. Aristocrats are a less suspicious folk. Those who've lived their whole lives in wealth cannot comprehend losing it.
Stefano twists his eyepiece to a higher magnification. One of the gentlemen has his back to him, and Stefano can see his cards. He's not paying attention, Stefano thinks, as another peal of guffaws strikes up at the table. Should have folded. He thinks he's making up his losses, but there's no way he's winning with two greens and a black. Stefano ponders going up and offering some friendly advice, but the people of Gorgarten are a suspicious one, and their nobles stink of pride. These men wouldn't see the dashing gambler extraordinaire who'd piled gondolas high with gold - they'd see him as he is: a half-drunk half-man in a bar, hiding from his debts in the black armpit of the world.
But Stefano has an ace up his sleeve. Just like in dragoncards, there is always a dual play. Gorgarten is not just a hiding place - it's a well of opportunity. That is, if the rumours are true: rumours of an emerald worth a city, worn around the neck of a woman more beautiful than jewels. Yes, he thinks. That is the prize. One gem in exchange for freedom. A worthy challenge for Stefano Cartavani, the Casino Prince of Ferin.
The sound of the door opening is almost drowned out by the men at the cards table, but Stefano sees them enter. Four men: three humans, muscled and bearded, and one dwarf with a flat nose, sweating like a troglodyte. They fan out into the pipe-smoke, heads swaying like cobras to a charmer, eyes raking every inch of the curtained den.
Stefano pales. The bouncers took his rapier at the entrance. He reaches down to his ankle - not far, luckily - and finds the hilt of a stiletto tucked into his sock. One knife against four men. Stefano likes a high-stakes game, but those odds are stacked against him.
He slips from his chair, making his way on his little legs over to the door, keeping to the wall. He pulls his hat low over his face. The card-players shout jeers and curses as a round ends in loss.
"There!" shouts the sweaty dwarf in an unmistakeably Ferini accent, and Stefano runs.
He barrels out of the door, and as he sprints through the atrium he snatches his rapier out of the bouncer's furry grip. The narrow streets of Gorgarten, filthy with wheel-churned mud, fan out ahead of him. "Much obliged!" he calls over his shoulder, and vanishes into an alleyway.
The thugs are right behind him.
"Cartavani!" they shout. "Get back here!"
"Sorry... gentlemen!" he replies between breaths. "You must... have... the wrong man!"
"Then why are you running?"
"Exercise?"
Their legs are longer than his; they're gaining faster than he anticipated. Without thinking, he dives through an open window, landing like a stone on a pile of hot sheets. He flails as he slides onto the floor, tangled in linen. He jabs his rapier and cold air gushes through the tear in the fabric, and he scrambles out, hearing his pursuers cry, "In there! Block the door!"
Stefano looks around. It's a laundry: tiled floor, bleached walls, sheets hung up like cheap curtains. The lanternlight turns the white material yellow, making the whole place look like a jaundiced maze.
A blow strikes the back of his head. He turns, swinging the rapier on instinct; it whaps against one of the muscled thugs and knocks him into the linen. Stefano chucks a bedsheet over him and sprints away, leaving him to struggle.
He rushes through the aisles, ducking under breeches and tunics, hunting for an exit. There. A window. He runs to it, but there's only dark water on the other side, sludging downriver. He turns again.
The dwarf steps out in front, flanked by his cronies who stand at twice his height. Their dirks flash. To either side is only white-yellow bedclothes.
"We have you now," the dwarf says. "I'd advise against making any more gambles. It's what got you into this mess in the first place, ah?"
"So who are you, then?" Stefano asks. He holds his rapier in the classic Ferini stance. "One of Niccolo's? Or Lucratia's? No, no, let me guess... Bruino?"
"If you wish to eliminate your enemies one by one, we will be here for some time, halfling. Now, you're coming with us. We have a long, long journey ahead of us."
They take a step forward, and Stefano backs away. His back touches the window ledge.
"Why me, boys?" Stefano asks. "What have I really done? Just a few coins here and there, a few promises reneged..."
The dwarf spits. "Don't play the fool. You stole from Niccolo. You borrowed money from Lucratia and threw it away in the Gilded Tiger. You took Bruino's wife while he was downstairs cooking oysters."
Another step. The sill digs into Stefano's spine. He's close enough to see the beads of sweat on the dwarf's brow.
"It could be any one of those reasons," the dwarf says. "But I'll give you another: it is because you are a slithering little rat, and every moneylender in Ferin wants your ballbag for a purse."
"Then you should tell them not to bother, because you wouldn't fit much coinage in there. Besides, you have me all wrong. You're working under faulty information."
"Is that right?" the dwarf says, toying with his blade.
"Absolutely. Bruino was cooking eels."
Stefano rolls backward out of the window.
When he drags himself out of the current, soaked to the bone and gasping, he squelches his way up the bank towards his accommodation and finds something waiting for him on his desk. He dries his hands on the bedsheet - feeling decidedly less fond of linen - pops open the seal and reads with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes widen to a breadth that only the promise of wealth could achieve.
At last, he thinks. I played a dangerous game, and here are its fruits.
His reward is within reach. All he has to do is commit a touch of crime.
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