LATER
Gertie sits on the floor her back against the wall, working on the coffer lock. She pauses to look about, but there are no strangers here, just her friends.
More fiddling...
The mechanism clicks.
"Got it!"
Gertie flips the coffer lid and peers inside.
"Thom, Alfonse, you guys might want to see this."
Anyone peering over the burglar-girl's shoulder sees
MEETING AT AN INN
Jacobus drinks his sour wine while the others whisper, chat, squabble.
Ten years writing for the Poveran stage. Well...plaza, street, tent, open field more often than a proper stage, to be honest. He didn't always get paid as a playwright and actor, and his doxy wasn't cheap, nor was ink and paper, or rum...so he quit.
Two years writing broadsheets and slogans, collecting stories, starting rumors, setting up pub brawls, all for Aldron Folbre and he'd been paid well enough.
And now he wasn't getting paid anymore, and maybe someone who knew what his work had been would blab and...
"Alright, you know why I called you here. Let's take a frank look at our situation."
While he waits for the chatter to die, Jacobus looks around the large wooden table. He counts six Folbre swordsmen, bloodstained blue-and-white gambesons peeking out from under the drab cloaks they have kept on, even in the stuffy room.
Twice as many footpads, dockyard bullies, and branded convicts.
And a crew of seven stranded pirates, their sailor's clothing marked with soot, some of them with blisters on their hands, arms, faces.
The speaker, satisfied of his audience's silent attention, goes on,
''The Serpent's gone, fled. "
Grumbling.
He adds, "And I know for a fact he took your pay with him and his picked men."
More grumbling, louder now, and some muffled oaths. Dark looks from some of the criminals at the Folbre soldiers, and the soldiers inching their hands towards those sword hilts in response.
Jacobus stays on message.
"We're all in the same situation here, men. Nobody has been paid. And none of us will be, not by Aldron Folbre. So let's not fight over it. We need to work together. That's why I called you all here, so we can figure out what to do next. Some of you might want to just bolt, but I have plans and I am happy to offer you all a part in forming a new gang. We'll have fair shares among us all, perfectly equal, and none of this one man lording it over the rest, though of course we'll have to vote on a leader."
A voice--quiet, familiar-- from somewhere near the darkened fireplace,
"Equal shares? Voting? Words to stir mobs. But you've let me down this time; your agitation hardly helped raise the mob as I needed."
Men turn, some reaching for weapons, some just staring in surprise.
Jacobus stutters, for once finding his words won't come out smoothly.
"Master Folbre...uhh...'
Aldron addresses the whole gathering, "It's true I cannot reward you all now as you deserve. Fortune ran against us this time, alas. But I have other plans, always other plans. I will reclaim my wealth and station. More--this city will bow before me. So come with me if you want gold and glory. Or stay here if you want to live as hunted men, leaderless, on the run from the Watch, the Thief-Catchers, Savelle and Holbin assassins."
Folbre partly opens one panel on his lantern, allowing a beam of yellow light to illuminate his face and upper body.
Jacobus rises. "Hold on a minute,
Master Folbre. You've left out the third option. They can choose their own leader. You've failed, and now it's time for another."
The lantern flickers.
Thwump
A sudden impact and then a dull pain in his chest.
As he falls to the floor, fingers wrapped around the crossbow bolt sticking out of his breast, Jacobus sees the other men getting out of their seats.
A burning sensation spreads in his chest. Hard to breathe. Can't make words.
Footsteps.
A boot nudges him, sends him flopping onto his back.
Aldron looks down at him, with that handsome face twisted in disgust.
"Serpent. I've never liked that nickname, you know. My men never used it when they thought I could hear. It's unflattering, and really too theatrical for my taste--although sometimes flash is called for."
The fallen merchant-prince leans in closer, smiling, a perfect mask of friendliness.
"You should feel honored, Jacobus. It's like something from one of your better shows. The poison on the bolt was originally purchased to kill a fine lady and now it's killing the man who was to pen a play about her murder by her lover. It will produce quite exquisite death agonies--just a side-effect, which I feel obligated to warn you of before the real pain sets in. Goodbye now."
END OF ADVENTURE