2. Cal
two
Cal
Cal strolled into The Last Drop tavern in high spirits. He always felt on top of Allaria after a successful job. And his latest heist at the Siren’s Call certainly deserved that honor.
By the Dark had it felt good to pull one over on those self-important nobles and protectors, robbing them of their valuables right under their stuck-up noses. Remembering the sight of so many protectors running around like spooked rats made him chuckle.
Not to mention the dumbfounded look on that inspector’s face. No case too difficult for him to solve? Ha!
The Last Drop was as dank and dirty as ever, the warped floorboards caked with years’ worth of grime and the tables sporting more scars than a Razakethi mercenary.
Nodding to the obvious muscle trying their best to look inconspicuous by a door in the back, he slid into a seat at the bar and rapped the counter, beaming at the barkeep.
The barkeep paused his futile attempts to clean a permanently stained glass and eyed him. “So, you’re back, eh? Didn’t think I’d see you around here again for a while.” The way he said it made it clear that he’d have preferred it that way.
That only made Cal grin wider. Getting under people’s skins was a particular talent of his. When someone was thinking less clearly, it made them easier to exploit.
“Sure am. I’ll take another of your finest bottles of brandy straight from the Lost Reef.”
The barkeep nodded and resumed his cleaning. “Not sure what we have left. Any particular vintage?”
“Surprise me,” Cal said with a shrug.
The barkeep’s eyes widened—that was not the proper follow-up passphrase.
Before he could get too excited and sic those nearby goons on him, Cal added, “Though I’m personally a fan of the 1176 Merman’s Mettle.”
The barkeep relaxed. He seemed almost disappointed as he nodded. “Let me check the back and see what I can do.” Abandoning his perch at the bar, he strode past the two brutes standing watch and disappeared through the door.
Whistling softly to himself, Cal swiveled in his seat and leaned back against the bar while he surveyed the tavern.
Situated near the docks in one of Derimay’s rougher port districts, it wasn’t particularly impressive.
Tables were squeezed together to fill the narrow space.
A smattering of the usual sort of patrons sat among them, here to either drink themselves into a stupor or gamble themselves deeper into debt.
He considered joining the games to amuse himself while he waited but decided against it. Best not push his luck too much here. Bald Locke was one of his more lucrative contracts, and he didn’t want to risk setting off the man’s infamous short fuse.
Instead, he occupied himself by stepping back through tonight’s heist. His scheme had worked flawlessly—they usually did. The trick was to keep your opponent always confused and guessing. Hence all the theatrics disabling the lights, shaking the building, and conjuring the smoke.
Let Derimay’s finest waste weeks trying to solve what purpose the spells had served, or how he’d mysteriously emptied a magically sealed vault, when the truth was far less grand: he’d simply robbed it before they sealed it for the night.
Easy enough for someone with his particular talent.
He glanced down at his hand and idly channeled a bit of duskflame into it. His hand seemed to flicker and shift, the finger’s elongating then shortening, the nails becoming colored then plain.
A sailor’s calloused grip.
An old man’s wrinkled hand.
A woman’s polished fingers.
His disguises, more substantial than mere illusions thanks to their ability to confound the senses into believing they were real, had certainly come in handy over the years.
Tonight had been no exception. Not a single protector had batted an eye when their captain strode into the vault to double check its contents one last time before it was sealed.
Once he was inside, it had been easy enough to gather up all the jewelry and assorted valuables. He’d left his calling cards behind and slipped away before the real captain returned to lock it. In and out, no one the wiser.
Of course, it had seemed a shame to leave without watching the chaos unfold.
He typically avoided using his established aliases while working a job, but he hadn’t been able to resist bending the rule this one time.
After all, his Lord Heneford persona had been a perfect fit.
What better place to enjoy the show than from the Pentarchy’s own private booth?
And Dark, was he glad he had. Not for the Pentarchy— they were as tedious as ever, and he loathed anyone that desperate for authority on principle. But their guest of honor had proven a pleasant surprise.
Cal had expected the inspector to be as self-righteous as the rest of Derimay’s elite, and he had been to an extent.
But there was also a certain earnestness to him that Cal had found refreshing.
He could tell the inspector was the sort of man who rarely missed a thing…
which had only made deceiving him all the more thrilling.
Cal had almost regretted having to end their conversation so soon.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that the inspector’s rugged good looks had been easy on the eyes, what with his well-built physique, neatly styled brown hair, and those gleaming silver glasses that accentuated his chiseled jaw…
Cal would have loved to tag along with him after the lights went out, but that would have been a bit too reckless, even for him. Alas. Perhaps their paths would cross again someday.
The creak of a door jolted him from his thoughts, and he turned to find the barkeep reemerging. Looking a touch reluctant, the barkeep waved him over.
“I think I found what you’re looking for. Come and see if it’s to your liking.”
Cal stood and, with a friendly nod to the thugs glaring at him from their spots along the wall, sauntered through the door after the barkeep.
They descended a narrow set of rickety stairs to a dank cellar lined with crates and casks.
Cal wrinkled his nose at the tang of mildew that hung in the air.
By the Dark, he’d never get used to that smell.
The barkeep, thankfully, didn’t linger there long.
He moved to the nearest cask and flicked a hidden latch nestled in its wooden side.
The cask’s curved exterior swung open, revealing another staircase.
This one appeared even more precarious than the last, held aloft by half-rotten beams and a prayer.
Grateful for his keen sense of balance, Cal stepped carefully down the stairs past damp stone and earth until at last they emerged into briny air.
The little cove sat nestled against Derimay’s cliffside, tucked away out of sight.
Docks jutted out into the narrow bay while rickety buildings perched against the stone.
Cal had to hand it to Bald Locke: it was a cozy little operation he had here.
Someone in Derimay Customs must have known about it—there was no way the cove had gone undetected for so long.
But it was private enough to limit the number of fingers Bald Locke had to grease with gallants to get them to look the other way.
“I know where to go from here,” Cal told the barkeep. “You don’t need to come with me.”
“Yes,” the barkeep grunted. “I do. The boss doesn’t like people he doesn’t trust sticking their noses into our business.”
Cal feigned affront, clapping a hand to his chest. “This is the fourth job I’ve run for Bald Locke this year. He knows me!”
“Exactly,” the barkeep muttered, quickening his pace.
Cal hid a smirk. Touché. He let his eyes rove over the docks they passed, cataloging everything he saw.
There was more activity than usual. It looked like a shipment had just come in, scores of people scurrying about a small skiff tied up to one of the docks.
Whatever had arrived must’ve been important.
The barkeep eventually stopped before a closed wooden door in one of the ramshackle buildings. Nothing marked it apart from any of the others they’d passed, but when he rapped his knuckles on the wood, a gruff voice barked, “Enter” from within.
Gesturing for Cal to do so, the barkeep turned and started back without a word.
“Have a great night!” Cal called after him. “Can’t wait to do this again soon.”
The barkeep didn’t respond save a slight tightening of his shoulders.
Watching him for a moment with an amused smirk, Cal turned and opened the door, striding in with an air of confidence that had served him well growing up on the streets. If you acted like you belonged somewhere, people tended to presume you did.
“Hey there, boss,” he said, sliding into the empty chair waiting for him. “Long time, no see.”
Bald Locke was a burly brute of a man. With the bulging muscles on his forearms, he looked like he could’ve bench-pressed one of Cal in each hand without breaking a sweat.
He wore a permanent pinched expression, his beady eyes containing a cold, calculating intelligence that belied his hulking form.
Cal’s eyes trailed to the lank black hair the crime boss kept tied back in a ponytail. The fact that Bald Locke was, in fact, not bald at all had always intrigued him, though he’d never quite felt suicidal enough to ask why.
“Blackjack,” Bald Locke said in his deep, rumbling voice. “You’re late. Any issues?”
Cal shook his head. “Went smooth as a Celestial’s bottom—like always.”
“Good. Then I assume you have it?”
Reaching under his shirt, Cal tapped a finger against a small tattoo emblazoned on his upper left chest. It was part of a matching set he’d paid handsomely for, though he tended to keep this one free for whatever a particular job required.
The image of a canvas sack shimmered as he infused it with a dark sheen of duskflame. It vanished from his skin an instant later, and a full-sized sack appeared in his hand. He tossed it onto the desk in front of Bald Locke.
“Your papers, as requested. Along with a few other assorted goodies.”