A clean table with two plates clean of food stood between Jocer and Ifian. The latter holding a quickly emptying mug of Dwarven Ale – unwitting courtesy of his table neighbour – and expressing his feeling of newfound homesickness towards: “… hair that can break a shaving razor if they tried to use it! And that’s just the women, the …”
“The brothel itself clean I hope,” was the only thing Jocer could think of to steer the conversation to a more mentally hospitable area without being too rude to his good friend.
“Aye. Clean and tidy, but it always managed to waver a smell of Dwarven Ale,” replied Ifian with a misty-eyed expression.
Jocer, familiar with the taste and smell of Dwarven Ale and how indistinguishable those properties are from those same properties that urine has, frowned slightly. “You don’t think that you were meant to be a Dwarf do you?”
The less sober of the two pondered the question, as best as a man full of beer could, and gave an accusing look towards the bottom of his drink, “It’s not so bad really… once you get used to it.”
“Being a dwarf you mean? And what part can one get used to? Women who can’t shave from the fault of their thick hair?” asked Jocer.
Ifian gave him an aghast type of look, “oh no no… I didn’t touch those services.” Finishing his beer and looking if the person next to him had more beer to offer.
Jocer cocked an eyebrow, “you mean you didn’t actually go to the brothel? What did you do in your free time if you didn’t drink cheap booze and play with the women?”
“Oh I had a go at the ladies there, just not the dwarven ones… you know… because of customs.” Ifian was innocently sipping beer that wasn’t very innocently procured.
“Customs?” Asked Jocer. “Yeah you know,” Ifian started uncertainly, “customs: how much do you tip, what can or can’t you do, that kind of stuff.”
“That kind of stuff is always different from one city to another. Why not just ask someone who lives there like you usually do?” Jocer was nibbling at some bread the person behind him had ordered, “you always come back from places with the wildest stories you hear in the taverns about what happens in the brothels. Not to mention some of those stories are your own.”
“Eh…” burped Ifian, “Dwaraves are different: everyone of them says that they’re married, but there just aren’t enough visitors to keep the brothel’s door open. No one wants to admit it, but the vast majority of them do frequent the place. Course, since nobody talks about it, I can’t ask anyone about it.”
Jocer finished his last bite, looking at the tables, around his, which still offered victuals, and nodded agreement with Ifian’s inference.
“As for the beer…” Ifian tried to get sideway to a more confortable subject, while finishing whatever drink he had liberated from another tavern patron. “You do get used to it… eventually.”
“Ah, I see…” Drinking his goblet’s last few drops of wine with a careful sip, until he was a waitress passing by him with a full goblet. Jocer switched his with hers, without the girl noticing, and continued with a question, “so it’s not just a cheaply diluted poison, people can get used to it?”
“Yes… it’s kind of an aquired taste” replied Ifian, followed by a contemplating pause that would indicate he’d struggled with that thought as well, or is still struggle with it now. “You just have to aquire the taste every time after you’ve sobered-up.” Downing his drink mid-sentence and giving Jocer a shudder.
Jocer quickly ordered another goblet of wine the instant a waitress passed by and, after a good few sips to wash down the taste of Ifian’s talk of horrendous beer, continued his inquiry, “you’ll want to skip the cultural details when you’ll put together your report for the Spy Master… possibly focus more on the assignment you were given” the last part with a tone of sarcasm, “what are their sentiments to our Lord?”.
Ifian put down the empty mug and tried to recall the real world beyond his drunken haze. “I think they think that…” a burp following his elipsies, “they have the same opinion that we have of him.” He shown with a smile expressing satisfaction at his ability to produce complete sentences when seven drinks deep.
But the well watered man’s gloating - from taking after the Dwarves – was paused by Jocer’s growing irritation, “what opinion? That we’re underpaid for serving as spies that would have more important bits cut off than just a hand and a foot?” He leaned in closer and hushed his voice, “this is serious Ifian, this is politics. We need to have an idea of the Karadur’s sentiments towards the new Lord. Do they think our leader too young? Do they think our new Lord too ignoble to lead in the first place?”
“You know I’m talking about all of the uncertainty in each and every one of decisions” said Ifian, laying down his mug on the table, “it’s like as if the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Whenever there’s a new proposed law, first it’s yay and the next day’s it’s ney.”
“Yes…” said Jocer putting his ching in his raised hand, “everyone’s been on edge lately because of all the decrees ordered and then swiftly cancelled, in quick successions, by the new Lord. I’ve even noticed our clients being more on edge as well.”
“I still don’t see why you’re refering your targets as clients” Ifian restarted drinking after Jocer stopped thinking aloud. “It’s because we need to remain inconscpicuous, even when we’re directly talking about our clients especially in public places” Joces said with extra emphasis on the word clients and pointing out with his eyes the crowd of people around in the bar, though none of them seemed interested in the two spies. “You can never be too careful” Jocer ended in a tone that pointed to his prideful professionalism.
“Those Dwarves judge whole nations from just the head of that state and our’s is barely an adult. We’ve all reason to be concerned about the Dwarves’ thoughts about us and our Lord.”
“Well, sometimes you can make a good impression of yourself and the Dwarves will think that’s good enough to judge everyone else with as well.” With delight he smelled a small fish that he stealthily picked from the table next to their’s. “After all, I hear diplomacy can go a long way” he smiled with a smile before biting into his stolen prize.
Jocer downed the rest of his drink in one swing and leaned into Ifian’s face, “Will they keep trade going with us or will their dumb dwarven pride want an end to the whole deal?”
Ifian pushed his friend lightly away, “a kno da yuv ben workin ‘ard at a trade wi da wee lads an deir… deir… their… their…” trailing off after realizing that he’d been talking with a heavy dwarven accent at a volume that’s proper for a concert singer in the relatively quiet tavern.
His face would blush from embarassment if it wasn’t already tomato red from all the beer he drank. Instead he quietly took out his pouch and clumbsily overpaid for his drinks and started walking out of the tavern, trying to avoid everyone’s gazing at him.
Jocer, on the other hand, pretending that he had noticed nothing unusual, pretended to slowly finish his drink and pretend to pay the tavern maid with a false smile and a charitable compliment. The last part didn’t work and was promptly thrown out of through the main entrance, but of course, only after having been promptly relieved of his very light pouch of money.
He got up and patted dust off of his clothing like nothing had happened in an attempt to conseal a quick inspection of his bones. Finding his skeleton intact, he looked around and set about to find his friend who’s probably having a good look at his last meal.
Ifian was pretty easy to find, since he was just around the corner completely unconscious. Sadly the walk home was more of an issue, since Ifian had gained weight, after visiting the dwarves, and Jocer was the roguish type who’d never stolen anything heavier than an envelope or a few coins as a tip from his generous client.
The mild weather wasn’t a problem, but the heavy snow was. After a good half hour of carrying his friend over the thick snow, his back gave up on him and Ifian succumbed to gravity’s influence. Jocer, at a loss, simply rolled Ifian the rest of the way back home.
Home for the two friends wasn’t much of a home at all, it was more of a shack in an undisclosed location slightly outside of town. They had worked hard as thieves over the course of their short lives and managed to become spies for the Lord of Istogar himself… or at least, spies for the Lord’s Spy Master. Not that the city-state was very wealthy and in great need of spies, it was just that there wasn’t really much to steal in the city anyway.
Jocer pushed his rotund companion onto a thin stack of hay, laying inside for just such occasions, and went to his own more comfortable bed comprising mostly of sheets half-full of hay. But hey, it’s better than sleeping on the floor.