[LOG] Fun and Games in Minos
Dramatis Personae: Malachi, Cyrus, and a bunch of not-so-innocent bystanders
Setting: Cameron, Minos.
Cyrus sits at a table by himself but it looks as though at least two other people have recently departed because there are several glasses and small plates scattered around the table.
Malachi steps inside with a hand on his cloak and a lack of hesitation in his step that speaks to knowing the locale already, and all its exits. Not that this stops him in the slightest from confirming that these things haven't changed as he enters, gaze flicking across the place in a sweep that encompasses Cyrus and moves on to look for other facts of note before returning to rest on the man.
Cyrus nods minutely to Malachi to indicate that he would like to be joined at the table but if Malachi has other business that he won't interrupt. To the untrained eye, Cyrus would not appear to even know who Malachi is.
Malachi takes a seat at a right angle to Cyrus, where they can both watch the main entrance and each other without much indiscreet head turning. If there is any other business, it seems interruptable: he glances about briefly again, but without any particular target in his eyes.
Cyrus waves toward a server who begins clearing the bulk of the detritus from the table. The scent of cheap tobacco and expensive rum still hovers in the air. Cyrus orders a new drink for himself and indicates that he will buy whatever Malachi wants.
Malachi nods slightly in a way that encompasses thanks for the offer, that whatever Cyrus is having will suit him just as well, and a politely restrained curiousity as to how this trip to Minos has been treating the other man, all considered.
Cyrus lowers his voice once the server is away and says, "Things are good, so far. Still have to go to Manzanil, though." His expression shows what he thinks of that leg of the trip. "Still, it's good to catch up with some old friends. You?"
"Dull," Malachi says, and where once there might have been some distantly implied complaint in the adjective, this time there's an equally distant weary approval for a day in which he has not been confronted with anything new threatening to destroy everything he knows. "Dinah?"
Cyrus takes both glasses from the server and slides one toward his friend. "She's got her papers to show that she's the ambassador. And the Salt Queen sent her back to me with a business proposition." He smiles and takes a sip.
Malachi accepts the glass and has a sip, in a way that requests elaboration on that point. Or an indication that elaboration won't be coming, as appropriate.
Cyrus says, "She wants Chantris to deal exclusively with the Minosian whaling cartel."
Malachi ponders the matter over another sip, slow and easy tonight in a way that speaks to either appreciation for the drink, the company, or not being back on the very dull work of the ship. "Likely to take it?"
Cyrus says, "I'll have to pitch it to Dad and Dulcy but it won't be a hard sell. Have you heard what Rebma's charging these days?"
Malachi flicks a gesture that's some commentary on power plays about the nations. "Must think they have backing, to push that hard."
Cyrus shrugs, "They probably do. My people tell me Begma's in bed with them. Personally, I don't give a rat's ass about the politics but if I can save a few coins while giving Rebma a swat across the nose, I'm all for it."
Malachi raises his glass to express a similar sentiment, though the swig immediately following has something about not being able to make any political moves of his own while on navy business to it. "Good work," he says. "Expect Dinah has more than that in play."
Cyrus nods, "I'm sure she does. I know better than to ask." He takes a long sip.
Malachi makes a minute noncommital gesture that begs for a cigarette between his fingers. He has another swig, silent for a moment while politics settle between them on the table like a briskly fluffed tablecloth.
Cyrus leans back and surveys the room as if looking for marks. Apparently finding none, he turns back to Malachi. "You've got the Orchid Queen, now," he says. It's not a question. "How's she handle?"
"Solid," Malachi says. "Poise with her force. Halfway to grace, despite the size. Keel refit since I last sailed on her fixed the stability issues."
Cyrus nods admiringly. "I'm glad they've been treating her right." He sips. "I knew you would."
Malachi nods, lifting his glass again. "Solid enough to last centuries. Gerard doesn't waste what he has."
Cyrus smirks, "That he doesn't. Which is more than I can say for his youngest brother."
That's more than a distant glimmer of darkness in Malachi's eyes. He has a deliberate swig of his drink before saying, "Not much to say for him." The emphasis hovers somewhere between the last and penultimate words.
Cyrus nods and leaves it at that. His expression of distaste conveys more than words could.
Malachi focuses on his drink until any impulse to elaborate has been washed back down. That he looks more than once as if he is about to go into detail says more of his opinion than whatever the details might have been.
Cyrus manages a smile again. He says, "It's good to see you. Especially here." He lowers his voice further, "Interested in a little side business?"
Malachi allows that he could be, through his gaze settling back on Cyrus rather than through any nod.
Cyrus smirks, "I'm not saying we should do anything overt. No need to piss anybody off just now but if the opportunity should present itself..." His eyes dart about the room as if marking a couple of potentials.
Malachi settles back very slightly in his chair, as if relaxing with the drink, though it's a move that would be convincing only to someone watching him from the back and unable to see his face. He considers the occupants of the room in a different manner than he did when he first entered: it's not checking for threats, this time.
Cyrus signals a server as he finishes his drink. She delivers a bottle, a deck of cards, and a pack of cigarettes. Cyrus opens the first and pushes the last towards Malachi. He raises a brow. "Fancy a card game?" he asks. "Or something a bit more daring?"
Malachi draws out a cigarette, and cups his hand about a match to light it rather than indulging in any tricks that keep the flame steady. "Daring," he says, resting an arm along the back of his chair in a way that indicates the direction of the docks and the caveat that he's sailing out again at dawn.
Cyrus smirks and refills each glass. His gaze lingers on a newly-arrived man at a table by himself near the door. Cyrus knocks back his drink and fills his glass again. His lips barely move as a whisper carries itself to Malachi's ears. The whisper says, "Let's drink a bit more." Then "...a fight? Or do you have a better idea?"
Malachi tosses back the rest of his drink, and flicks an ember off the tip of his cigarette in a way that indicates approval for the plan.
Cyrus drinks a bit more but not enough to make him drunk. He waits until Malachi has finished his cigarette before raising his voice slightly. "Well, that's where you're wrong," he says. "I heard it from the man, himself."
Malachi stubs out the last ember, and says in an even voice, "You believed him?"
Cyrus sets his glass down a little too hard. "Are you calling me an idiot?" he says loud enough to be heard across the room. The man at the door and a few others turn towards the pair.
Malachi takes a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. "You're the one who said it."
Cyrus nods slowly and says, "That's how it is, huh?" He pushes his chair back with a loud scraping noise but does not stand. "Fine. If you want out, just say so. Don't try to pin this on the captain." His eyes widen as if he's getting angry.
Malachi leans forward over the table, to make an emphatic gesture with his empty glass. "You can't see the obvious? Don't come crying to me when he breaks. Some of us know better already."
Cyrus does stand now. He throws some coins on the table and moves toward the door. He leans down as he passes Malachi as if muttering something inflammatory to him. What he actually says is, "First strike yours or mine? Your call."
Malachi says in a low voice, "Yours. Something flashy." He shoves his own chair out from the table with an expression veering dangerously close to actually expressing visible anger.
Cyrus pushes Malachi's chest with both hands as if to clear him out of the way so he can get to the door more quickly. Anyone watching closely might conclude that he's doing it with the intent to harm Malachi in the process. Anyone watching from Malachi's point of view would see that he is telegraphing the move.
Malachi takes a half step back, raising his hands defensively, then grabs at Cyrus's shoulder for one of those half-thrown shoves that looks far more impressive if the person on the other side of it is putting a little effort into adding to the distance.
Cyrus is apparently taken completely by surprise as Malachi throws him and he stumbles toward the door. He is unable to stay on his feet, however, and he lands on the fellow by the table. Cyrus begins to apologize to the hapless sailor when the bartender shouts, "Take this outside, fellas!" The bartender hefts a cudgel by way of emphasizing his point.
Malachi stalks forward towards Cyrus, ignoring the bartender entirely, as one hand curls into a fist. To most people, he appears ready to try that move again through something more breakable. To Cyrus, he looks as if he's just starting to properly enjoy himself.
Cyrus has just begun to stand and move away from the man he knocked over as he hears Malachi's foosteps approaching. He attempts to back away from the larger man and succeeds only in tripping over the prone sailor. He puts his hands up in front of himself and tries to get to the door. This puts him right in the way of a man who is running out, perhaps in response to the fight.
Malachi grabs for Cyrus's collar with one hand, coincidentally setting himself in a place that's now blocked the exit entirely with one arm outstretched in front where the running man has no hope of evading short of stopping and going another direction entirely. He could be pulling Cyrus in for a blow, or to clear him from the doorway, though it seems unlikely that many would take the latter interpretation at this point.
Cyrus's head rocks back as he is struck by Malachi. He falls into the man who was trying to escape. Cyrus uses the man as something to push off of as he launches himself toward Malachi. He hits Malachi's chest with one forearm and reaches for his shoulder with his other hand. If he meets no resistance this will take both of them out the door and onto the docks.
Malachi's eyes flick ever so rapidly across the tavern, taking in the likelihood of getting a good fight in there, and then lets himself go stumbling right back out the door with Cyrus onto the docks. He takes the opportunity of the movement backward to grab Cyrus' wrist and twist the man's arm away in a move that looks far more painful than it feels.
Cyrus grits his teeth and makes a pained noise as he flies past Malachi. He rolls onto the docks but most of that roll looks involuntary. He looks around quickly and draws a dagger as he gets to his feet and backs up to put some more distance between himself and Malachi. He might have just winked.
Malachi's hand acquires a dagger from somewhere inside his cloak--it's not the one at his hip--as he comes stalking out after the man. He hooks a foot around a sealed barrel set conveniently near his path, and kicks it off in Cyrus' direction at a clattering roll.
Cyrus takes his eyes off Malachi in order to avoid the barrel. He steps to the side and does not lose his balance but he has allowed Malachi to advance on him and cannot flee effectively at this point. So he moves around behind three men who look to be from the Commodore of Antika's personal crew. One of them sees that he is between two men with knives and quickens his pace. The other two have yet to notice. Cyrus's free hand darts into and out of his jacket.
Malachi advances steadily on Cyrus, dagger in his right hand. Rather than cutting around the two men remaining in the way, he slaps the one directly in front of him out of his way with a blow that could crack ribs. In some matter of kindness, or the night being young, he does so with his unoccupied hand, and so merely sends the man stumbling off into the third, rather than perforating anyone yet.
Cyrus makes an odd move that looks as if he's atempting to help the stumbling man but he's doing so ineptly. He grabs the man and ends up hurrying him towards the wood of the dock. This causes him to fall into the third sailor as Cyrus jogs along to the side and threatens Malachi with his knife. His free hand is open and empty. He takes a half-step forward as his eyes sparkle with suppressed amusement.
Malachi makes a curt "bring it" gesture with his free hand, to all appearances ignoring the three men about them as irrelevant to the fight before him. His dagger swings up defensively, and when he steps to the side to work around Cyrus he's incidentally cut the brighter of the three off from the other two.
Cyrus slashes towards Malachi twice and is parried each time. He gets a panicked look and 'inadvertently' backs into one of the prone men who was just beginning to stand. The man grabs Cyrus's leg to prevent himself from being stepped on. Cyrus reacts to this by kicking the man savagely in the ribs. He windmills his arms in an attempt to remain upright. The other prone man looks up in mild horror at Cyrus's flailing knife.
Malachi steps in with a shoulder check that takes full advantage of his height to send the smaller man falling. On top of the prone men, of course, and with a purely 'accidental' step onto a hand while he helps Cyrus down. He follows down to pin Cyrus over the ground and the men, slamming his dagger into the wood of the docks a finger's length away from Cyrus's ear. "You get my point?" he asks, ignoring the man whose back is now supporting his knee. The man in question has enough wisdom to not offer objection to the liberty Malachi is taking just yet.
Cyrus's knife clatters to the wood as he opens his hand. He says, "Um, yeah. I guess I was wrong, after all." He chuckles nervously as his eyes cant over to the knife beside his head. "Me and my big mouth, huh?"
"Liable to cause you trouble some day," Malachi says, and stands, taking his dagger back up with him. He offers Cyrus his free hand up, with one foot resting on the discarded knife.
Cyrus takes Malachi's hand and pushes off of one of the sailors beneath them as he does so. He makes no move toward the knife. "That's what I get for listening to Rebmans, eh? Won't happen again."
The only Antikan sailor who remained standing mutters darkly about Rebma.
Malachi glances briefly to the sailor who spoke, with no more threat to the look than is inherent in a man holding an unsheathed dagger in one hand. "Mind it doesn't," he says to Cyrus, and moves his foot from the knife.
Cyrus steps back and offers to help one of the Commodore's men up. He mutters an apology for the trouble and he unhooks a small pouch from his belt with his free hand. He tosses it to the standing sailor saying, "Buy yourselves a round on me."
The first prone sailor accepts the help up. He is holding his ribs where Cyrus's foot and then Malachi's knee used to be.
Malachi offers the other fallen man a hand, not stooping to offer it. His "stern" look at Cyrus has a great deal of commentary on the entertainment having come at a quite reasonable price somewhere inside it.
The sailors look dubious as they react to their injuries and go on their way but they don't look interested in causing any trouble. There is a little more grumbling about Rebma.
Cyrus says, "Care for a drink? If I remember the blueprints correctly, the Queen has a nice Captain's Quarters."
Malachi says, "Well-stocked. Could use a shakedown."
Cyrus smirks and retrieves his dagger. "Lead on, Captain."
Malachi nods evenly to Cyrus, and leads the way. That turn at one corner of his mouth is surely only a trick of the light.
Cyrus follows Malachi up the gangplank and into the Captain's quarters. Once they are safely inside he rubs his jaw where Malachi hit it and allows himself a chuckle. He heads for a chair and begins shedding his jacket which looks heavier than it should.
Malachi cracks open a liquor cabinet, and surveys the contents as if it's the first time he's looked inside for longer than to assure himself there wasn't anyone hiding in there. "Rebmans," he says. "Nice touch."
Cyrus smirks, "It just came to me." He reaches into various pockets of his jacket, some of them in places pockets don't look like they should be. He begins placing things on the table. A pouch, a small leather case, two sharkskin envelopes and what looks to be a traditional Minosian wedding ring, well worn.
Malachi returns with two glasses of an excellent whiskey, setting them down near the pocket contents on the table. "Busy night?"
Cyrus takes the glass with a nod of thanks. He sips and nods again as he closes his eyes and savors the whiskey. He opens them and says, "All picked up during the fight. So, half of it's yours, by rights." He points to the ring, "One of the Commodore's men had this in his pocket. Looks like he didn't want the ladies of Cameron to think him unavailable."
Malachi takes up the ring, and turns it about between two fingers as he sits before his own glass. "He's in for a more interesting evening than he thinks he's already had." The ring goes back on the table, and he takes up the sharkskin envelopes to look over the contents as he drinks.
The two envelopes were apparently taken from the same man. Each one is identical except that the orders inside are contradictory. As if his goal was to send to people against each other so that he could benefit from the ensuing conflict.
Cyrus opens the case to reveal several finely crafted scalpels. He raises a brow and looks to the envelopes.
Malachi reads the orders at his leisure, between sips of whiskey, and then turns them over to Cyrus. With no spoken commentary, but a slight lift of his brow as he offers them for a second opinion.
Cyrus slides the scalpels to the center of the table for perusal as he looks at the orders. "Interesting," he says. "Did I just pick your father's pocket?" He chuckles. "No, of course not. He would never be this sloppy."
Malachi takes out a scalpel with some care, considering the heft and make of the blade. "Unless he wanted the pocket picked," he says. And adds, a touch distracted, "Easier then to plant it on someone else."
Cyrus takes a sip and then says, "Good point. I wish I could remember which guy I took those off of. It was one of the ones in the bar. He's sure gonna miss those."
"He'll remember us," Malachi says, not sounding as if this is something of any great concern to him, and sets the scalpel back in its case. "Might come looking."
Cyrus shrugs, "Might be willing to strike a deal. But I'm off to Manzanil in the morning on The Apple. If he's not too embarrassed to have lost those he'll still think twice about stepping onto your sister's ship." He grins, "I'm pretty sure my girlfriend can beat him up."
"Expect so," Malachi says. If that was a trace of pride in his voice, he covers it with more whiskey.
Cyrus weighs the pouch in his non-drink hand and it jingles. He opens it to reveal a collection of coins from multiple ports all over shadow. "Nice," he says. "This is three times what I gave to that Antikan." The fact that Cyrus could toss a hundred of these pouches overboard and not put a dent in his personal finances goes unspoken.
Malachi says blandly, "Good profit." He considers the case of scalpels and the wedding ring, weighing the value of the two against each other, and finally selects the scalpels.
Cyrus pockets the pouch and studies the ring and the envelopes. "Those would all make for good insurance policies if we ever ran into those guys again. Not much value by themselves."
"Expect to?" Malachi asks, arranging the two sets of orders side by side for another moment of thought. "Bad lighting outside," he comments, a finger briefly on the ring.
Cyrus shakes his head. "The tall fella wasn't from Cameron. I couldn't place his accent but he was definitely from one of the other islands. The one who was trying to run didn't speak but he was nervous enough that I'm not worried about him." He finishes his drink.
Malachi shrugs one shoulder, and collects the wedding ring, for all that it's of little use.
Cyrus nods and slides the orders towards his side of the table. "I'd better see if Dinah's back yet. She wants to set sail at first light." He doesn't stand just yet, though. He takes the time to see that the seals on the envelopes are once again watertight.
Malachi turns the ring once more between his fingers, and then tucks it away into an inner pocket. The case of scalpels he sets aside with a more thoughtful glance, as if it might be destined to become a present for someone else. "Same here. Another path grind back to Amber. Manzanil?"
Cyrus nods and his expression sobers. "To meet the in-laws. Well, to see them again. I've met them already. Didn't make a good impression the last few times."
"Heads of their enemies," Malachi suggests, and has a swig of whiskey. "In a sturdy crate lined against leaking." The suggestion is not unsympathetic, nor entirely facetious.
Cyrus smiles, "Dis's gunner recommended spleens."
Malachi says, "More a sack than a crate, with those."
Cyrus chuckles. "Easier to transport, I hear." He stands and extends a hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mal. It's good to have one prospective inlaw who only tries to stab me when I ask for it."
Malachi rises, and takes Cyrus's hand. "Reliable that way," he says. He's said too much lately about fate being a bitch to wish anyone good luck, but some of the intent carries through in his grasp anyway.
Cyrus nods and releases Malachi's hand after clasping his forearm with his free hand. "I'll see you back in Amber. Be careful out there." He turns to leave.
Malachi nods slightly to Cyrus as the man goes, a "You too" so brief it'll only be caught in peripheral vision.
Setting: Cameron, Minos.
Cyrus sits at a table by himself but it looks as though at least two other people have recently departed because there are several glasses and small plates scattered around the table.
Malachi steps inside with a hand on his cloak and a lack of hesitation in his step that speaks to knowing the locale already, and all its exits. Not that this stops him in the slightest from confirming that these things haven't changed as he enters, gaze flicking across the place in a sweep that encompasses Cyrus and moves on to look for other facts of note before returning to rest on the man.
Cyrus nods minutely to Malachi to indicate that he would like to be joined at the table but if Malachi has other business that he won't interrupt. To the untrained eye, Cyrus would not appear to even know who Malachi is.
Malachi takes a seat at a right angle to Cyrus, where they can both watch the main entrance and each other without much indiscreet head turning. If there is any other business, it seems interruptable: he glances about briefly again, but without any particular target in his eyes.
Cyrus waves toward a server who begins clearing the bulk of the detritus from the table. The scent of cheap tobacco and expensive rum still hovers in the air. Cyrus orders a new drink for himself and indicates that he will buy whatever Malachi wants.
Malachi nods slightly in a way that encompasses thanks for the offer, that whatever Cyrus is having will suit him just as well, and a politely restrained curiousity as to how this trip to Minos has been treating the other man, all considered.
Cyrus lowers his voice once the server is away and says, "Things are good, so far. Still have to go to Manzanil, though." His expression shows what he thinks of that leg of the trip. "Still, it's good to catch up with some old friends. You?"
"Dull," Malachi says, and where once there might have been some distantly implied complaint in the adjective, this time there's an equally distant weary approval for a day in which he has not been confronted with anything new threatening to destroy everything he knows. "Dinah?"
Cyrus takes both glasses from the server and slides one toward his friend. "She's got her papers to show that she's the ambassador. And the Salt Queen sent her back to me with a business proposition." He smiles and takes a sip.
Malachi accepts the glass and has a sip, in a way that requests elaboration on that point. Or an indication that elaboration won't be coming, as appropriate.
Cyrus says, "She wants Chantris to deal exclusively with the Minosian whaling cartel."
Malachi ponders the matter over another sip, slow and easy tonight in a way that speaks to either appreciation for the drink, the company, or not being back on the very dull work of the ship. "Likely to take it?"
Cyrus says, "I'll have to pitch it to Dad and Dulcy but it won't be a hard sell. Have you heard what Rebma's charging these days?"
Malachi flicks a gesture that's some commentary on power plays about the nations. "Must think they have backing, to push that hard."
Cyrus shrugs, "They probably do. My people tell me Begma's in bed with them. Personally, I don't give a rat's ass about the politics but if I can save a few coins while giving Rebma a swat across the nose, I'm all for it."
Malachi raises his glass to express a similar sentiment, though the swig immediately following has something about not being able to make any political moves of his own while on navy business to it. "Good work," he says. "Expect Dinah has more than that in play."
Cyrus nods, "I'm sure she does. I know better than to ask." He takes a long sip.
Malachi makes a minute noncommital gesture that begs for a cigarette between his fingers. He has another swig, silent for a moment while politics settle between them on the table like a briskly fluffed tablecloth.
Cyrus leans back and surveys the room as if looking for marks. Apparently finding none, he turns back to Malachi. "You've got the Orchid Queen, now," he says. It's not a question. "How's she handle?"
"Solid," Malachi says. "Poise with her force. Halfway to grace, despite the size. Keel refit since I last sailed on her fixed the stability issues."
Cyrus nods admiringly. "I'm glad they've been treating her right." He sips. "I knew you would."
Malachi nods, lifting his glass again. "Solid enough to last centuries. Gerard doesn't waste what he has."
Cyrus smirks, "That he doesn't. Which is more than I can say for his youngest brother."
That's more than a distant glimmer of darkness in Malachi's eyes. He has a deliberate swig of his drink before saying, "Not much to say for him." The emphasis hovers somewhere between the last and penultimate words.
Cyrus nods and leaves it at that. His expression of distaste conveys more than words could.
Malachi focuses on his drink until any impulse to elaborate has been washed back down. That he looks more than once as if he is about to go into detail says more of his opinion than whatever the details might have been.
Cyrus manages a smile again. He says, "It's good to see you. Especially here." He lowers his voice further, "Interested in a little side business?"
Malachi allows that he could be, through his gaze settling back on Cyrus rather than through any nod.
Cyrus smirks, "I'm not saying we should do anything overt. No need to piss anybody off just now but if the opportunity should present itself..." His eyes dart about the room as if marking a couple of potentials.
Malachi settles back very slightly in his chair, as if relaxing with the drink, though it's a move that would be convincing only to someone watching him from the back and unable to see his face. He considers the occupants of the room in a different manner than he did when he first entered: it's not checking for threats, this time.
Cyrus signals a server as he finishes his drink. She delivers a bottle, a deck of cards, and a pack of cigarettes. Cyrus opens the first and pushes the last towards Malachi. He raises a brow. "Fancy a card game?" he asks. "Or something a bit more daring?"
Malachi draws out a cigarette, and cups his hand about a match to light it rather than indulging in any tricks that keep the flame steady. "Daring," he says, resting an arm along the back of his chair in a way that indicates the direction of the docks and the caveat that he's sailing out again at dawn.
Cyrus smirks and refills each glass. His gaze lingers on a newly-arrived man at a table by himself near the door. Cyrus knocks back his drink and fills his glass again. His lips barely move as a whisper carries itself to Malachi's ears. The whisper says, "Let's drink a bit more." Then "...a fight? Or do you have a better idea?"
Malachi tosses back the rest of his drink, and flicks an ember off the tip of his cigarette in a way that indicates approval for the plan.
Cyrus drinks a bit more but not enough to make him drunk. He waits until Malachi has finished his cigarette before raising his voice slightly. "Well, that's where you're wrong," he says. "I heard it from the man, himself."
Malachi stubs out the last ember, and says in an even voice, "You believed him?"
Cyrus sets his glass down a little too hard. "Are you calling me an idiot?" he says loud enough to be heard across the room. The man at the door and a few others turn towards the pair.
Malachi takes a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. "You're the one who said it."
Cyrus nods slowly and says, "That's how it is, huh?" He pushes his chair back with a loud scraping noise but does not stand. "Fine. If you want out, just say so. Don't try to pin this on the captain." His eyes widen as if he's getting angry.
Malachi leans forward over the table, to make an emphatic gesture with his empty glass. "You can't see the obvious? Don't come crying to me when he breaks. Some of us know better already."
Cyrus does stand now. He throws some coins on the table and moves toward the door. He leans down as he passes Malachi as if muttering something inflammatory to him. What he actually says is, "First strike yours or mine? Your call."
Malachi says in a low voice, "Yours. Something flashy." He shoves his own chair out from the table with an expression veering dangerously close to actually expressing visible anger.
Cyrus pushes Malachi's chest with both hands as if to clear him out of the way so he can get to the door more quickly. Anyone watching closely might conclude that he's doing it with the intent to harm Malachi in the process. Anyone watching from Malachi's point of view would see that he is telegraphing the move.
Malachi takes a half step back, raising his hands defensively, then grabs at Cyrus's shoulder for one of those half-thrown shoves that looks far more impressive if the person on the other side of it is putting a little effort into adding to the distance.
Cyrus is apparently taken completely by surprise as Malachi throws him and he stumbles toward the door. He is unable to stay on his feet, however, and he lands on the fellow by the table. Cyrus begins to apologize to the hapless sailor when the bartender shouts, "Take this outside, fellas!" The bartender hefts a cudgel by way of emphasizing his point.
Malachi stalks forward towards Cyrus, ignoring the bartender entirely, as one hand curls into a fist. To most people, he appears ready to try that move again through something more breakable. To Cyrus, he looks as if he's just starting to properly enjoy himself.
Cyrus has just begun to stand and move away from the man he knocked over as he hears Malachi's foosteps approaching. He attempts to back away from the larger man and succeeds only in tripping over the prone sailor. He puts his hands up in front of himself and tries to get to the door. This puts him right in the way of a man who is running out, perhaps in response to the fight.
Malachi grabs for Cyrus's collar with one hand, coincidentally setting himself in a place that's now blocked the exit entirely with one arm outstretched in front where the running man has no hope of evading short of stopping and going another direction entirely. He could be pulling Cyrus in for a blow, or to clear him from the doorway, though it seems unlikely that many would take the latter interpretation at this point.
Cyrus's head rocks back as he is struck by Malachi. He falls into the man who was trying to escape. Cyrus uses the man as something to push off of as he launches himself toward Malachi. He hits Malachi's chest with one forearm and reaches for his shoulder with his other hand. If he meets no resistance this will take both of them out the door and onto the docks.
Malachi's eyes flick ever so rapidly across the tavern, taking in the likelihood of getting a good fight in there, and then lets himself go stumbling right back out the door with Cyrus onto the docks. He takes the opportunity of the movement backward to grab Cyrus' wrist and twist the man's arm away in a move that looks far more painful than it feels.
Cyrus grits his teeth and makes a pained noise as he flies past Malachi. He rolls onto the docks but most of that roll looks involuntary. He looks around quickly and draws a dagger as he gets to his feet and backs up to put some more distance between himself and Malachi. He might have just winked.
Malachi's hand acquires a dagger from somewhere inside his cloak--it's not the one at his hip--as he comes stalking out after the man. He hooks a foot around a sealed barrel set conveniently near his path, and kicks it off in Cyrus' direction at a clattering roll.
Cyrus takes his eyes off Malachi in order to avoid the barrel. He steps to the side and does not lose his balance but he has allowed Malachi to advance on him and cannot flee effectively at this point. So he moves around behind three men who look to be from the Commodore of Antika's personal crew. One of them sees that he is between two men with knives and quickens his pace. The other two have yet to notice. Cyrus's free hand darts into and out of his jacket.
Malachi advances steadily on Cyrus, dagger in his right hand. Rather than cutting around the two men remaining in the way, he slaps the one directly in front of him out of his way with a blow that could crack ribs. In some matter of kindness, or the night being young, he does so with his unoccupied hand, and so merely sends the man stumbling off into the third, rather than perforating anyone yet.
Cyrus makes an odd move that looks as if he's atempting to help the stumbling man but he's doing so ineptly. He grabs the man and ends up hurrying him towards the wood of the dock. This causes him to fall into the third sailor as Cyrus jogs along to the side and threatens Malachi with his knife. His free hand is open and empty. He takes a half-step forward as his eyes sparkle with suppressed amusement.
Malachi makes a curt "bring it" gesture with his free hand, to all appearances ignoring the three men about them as irrelevant to the fight before him. His dagger swings up defensively, and when he steps to the side to work around Cyrus he's incidentally cut the brighter of the three off from the other two.
Cyrus slashes towards Malachi twice and is parried each time. He gets a panicked look and 'inadvertently' backs into one of the prone men who was just beginning to stand. The man grabs Cyrus's leg to prevent himself from being stepped on. Cyrus reacts to this by kicking the man savagely in the ribs. He windmills his arms in an attempt to remain upright. The other prone man looks up in mild horror at Cyrus's flailing knife.
Malachi steps in with a shoulder check that takes full advantage of his height to send the smaller man falling. On top of the prone men, of course, and with a purely 'accidental' step onto a hand while he helps Cyrus down. He follows down to pin Cyrus over the ground and the men, slamming his dagger into the wood of the docks a finger's length away from Cyrus's ear. "You get my point?" he asks, ignoring the man whose back is now supporting his knee. The man in question has enough wisdom to not offer objection to the liberty Malachi is taking just yet.
Cyrus's knife clatters to the wood as he opens his hand. He says, "Um, yeah. I guess I was wrong, after all." He chuckles nervously as his eyes cant over to the knife beside his head. "Me and my big mouth, huh?"
"Liable to cause you trouble some day," Malachi says, and stands, taking his dagger back up with him. He offers Cyrus his free hand up, with one foot resting on the discarded knife.
Cyrus takes Malachi's hand and pushes off of one of the sailors beneath them as he does so. He makes no move toward the knife. "That's what I get for listening to Rebmans, eh? Won't happen again."
The only Antikan sailor who remained standing mutters darkly about Rebma.
Malachi glances briefly to the sailor who spoke, with no more threat to the look than is inherent in a man holding an unsheathed dagger in one hand. "Mind it doesn't," he says to Cyrus, and moves his foot from the knife.
Cyrus steps back and offers to help one of the Commodore's men up. He mutters an apology for the trouble and he unhooks a small pouch from his belt with his free hand. He tosses it to the standing sailor saying, "Buy yourselves a round on me."
The first prone sailor accepts the help up. He is holding his ribs where Cyrus's foot and then Malachi's knee used to be.
Malachi offers the other fallen man a hand, not stooping to offer it. His "stern" look at Cyrus has a great deal of commentary on the entertainment having come at a quite reasonable price somewhere inside it.
The sailors look dubious as they react to their injuries and go on their way but they don't look interested in causing any trouble. There is a little more grumbling about Rebma.
Cyrus says, "Care for a drink? If I remember the blueprints correctly, the Queen has a nice Captain's Quarters."
Malachi says, "Well-stocked. Could use a shakedown."
Cyrus smirks and retrieves his dagger. "Lead on, Captain."
Malachi nods evenly to Cyrus, and leads the way. That turn at one corner of his mouth is surely only a trick of the light.
Cyrus follows Malachi up the gangplank and into the Captain's quarters. Once they are safely inside he rubs his jaw where Malachi hit it and allows himself a chuckle. He heads for a chair and begins shedding his jacket which looks heavier than it should.
Malachi cracks open a liquor cabinet, and surveys the contents as if it's the first time he's looked inside for longer than to assure himself there wasn't anyone hiding in there. "Rebmans," he says. "Nice touch."
Cyrus smirks, "It just came to me." He reaches into various pockets of his jacket, some of them in places pockets don't look like they should be. He begins placing things on the table. A pouch, a small leather case, two sharkskin envelopes and what looks to be a traditional Minosian wedding ring, well worn.
Malachi returns with two glasses of an excellent whiskey, setting them down near the pocket contents on the table. "Busy night?"
Cyrus takes the glass with a nod of thanks. He sips and nods again as he closes his eyes and savors the whiskey. He opens them and says, "All picked up during the fight. So, half of it's yours, by rights." He points to the ring, "One of the Commodore's men had this in his pocket. Looks like he didn't want the ladies of Cameron to think him unavailable."
Malachi takes up the ring, and turns it about between two fingers as he sits before his own glass. "He's in for a more interesting evening than he thinks he's already had." The ring goes back on the table, and he takes up the sharkskin envelopes to look over the contents as he drinks.
The two envelopes were apparently taken from the same man. Each one is identical except that the orders inside are contradictory. As if his goal was to send to people against each other so that he could benefit from the ensuing conflict.
Cyrus opens the case to reveal several finely crafted scalpels. He raises a brow and looks to the envelopes.
Malachi reads the orders at his leisure, between sips of whiskey, and then turns them over to Cyrus. With no spoken commentary, but a slight lift of his brow as he offers them for a second opinion.
Cyrus slides the scalpels to the center of the table for perusal as he looks at the orders. "Interesting," he says. "Did I just pick your father's pocket?" He chuckles. "No, of course not. He would never be this sloppy."
Malachi takes out a scalpel with some care, considering the heft and make of the blade. "Unless he wanted the pocket picked," he says. And adds, a touch distracted, "Easier then to plant it on someone else."
Cyrus takes a sip and then says, "Good point. I wish I could remember which guy I took those off of. It was one of the ones in the bar. He's sure gonna miss those."
"He'll remember us," Malachi says, not sounding as if this is something of any great concern to him, and sets the scalpel back in its case. "Might come looking."
Cyrus shrugs, "Might be willing to strike a deal. But I'm off to Manzanil in the morning on The Apple. If he's not too embarrassed to have lost those he'll still think twice about stepping onto your sister's ship." He grins, "I'm pretty sure my girlfriend can beat him up."
"Expect so," Malachi says. If that was a trace of pride in his voice, he covers it with more whiskey.
Cyrus weighs the pouch in his non-drink hand and it jingles. He opens it to reveal a collection of coins from multiple ports all over shadow. "Nice," he says. "This is three times what I gave to that Antikan." The fact that Cyrus could toss a hundred of these pouches overboard and not put a dent in his personal finances goes unspoken.
Malachi says blandly, "Good profit." He considers the case of scalpels and the wedding ring, weighing the value of the two against each other, and finally selects the scalpels.
Cyrus pockets the pouch and studies the ring and the envelopes. "Those would all make for good insurance policies if we ever ran into those guys again. Not much value by themselves."
"Expect to?" Malachi asks, arranging the two sets of orders side by side for another moment of thought. "Bad lighting outside," he comments, a finger briefly on the ring.
Cyrus shakes his head. "The tall fella wasn't from Cameron. I couldn't place his accent but he was definitely from one of the other islands. The one who was trying to run didn't speak but he was nervous enough that I'm not worried about him." He finishes his drink.
Malachi shrugs one shoulder, and collects the wedding ring, for all that it's of little use.
Cyrus nods and slides the orders towards his side of the table. "I'd better see if Dinah's back yet. She wants to set sail at first light." He doesn't stand just yet, though. He takes the time to see that the seals on the envelopes are once again watertight.
Malachi turns the ring once more between his fingers, and then tucks it away into an inner pocket. The case of scalpels he sets aside with a more thoughtful glance, as if it might be destined to become a present for someone else. "Same here. Another path grind back to Amber. Manzanil?"
Cyrus nods and his expression sobers. "To meet the in-laws. Well, to see them again. I've met them already. Didn't make a good impression the last few times."
"Heads of their enemies," Malachi suggests, and has a swig of whiskey. "In a sturdy crate lined against leaking." The suggestion is not unsympathetic, nor entirely facetious.
Cyrus smiles, "Dis's gunner recommended spleens."
Malachi says, "More a sack than a crate, with those."
Cyrus chuckles. "Easier to transport, I hear." He stands and extends a hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mal. It's good to have one prospective inlaw who only tries to stab me when I ask for it."
Malachi rises, and takes Cyrus's hand. "Reliable that way," he says. He's said too much lately about fate being a bitch to wish anyone good luck, but some of the intent carries through in his grasp anyway.
Cyrus nods and releases Malachi's hand after clasping his forearm with his free hand. "I'll see you back in Amber. Be careful out there." He turns to leave.
Malachi nods slightly to Cyrus as the man goes, a "You too" so brief it'll only be caught in peripheral vision.