The walk back to the city passed without incident. Once inside, Ryan made a deliberate detour to check on the spot where he'd taken down the pursuer. No one was there. The last of his worry about that night quietly dissolved.
First, I need a box to put this in. Carrying it around by the knot is no way to go about things.
Even with the undershirt muffling most of its glow, the deep crimson mass was still conspicuous in the surrounding dark. His own Shadow Lurk wasn't affected by it — but him turning invisible didn't stop it from glowing on its own.
Using his jacket to conceal his right hand and the crimson "gelatin cube," Ryan looked around. His Assassin-sharpened eyes quickly found a tin cigarette case lying abandoned on the street — unloved and discarded by some dock worker or factory hand.
Remembering that the potion ingredients he'd bought had come in tin cases, Ryan picked it up and slipped the crimson mass inside. Tin case in hand, he made a brief detour to the riverside to toss the cloth strip into the water.
At least there's no obvious effect from holding it at one remove. Still — keep watch. Who knows how it changes after being half-absorbed by someone.
With the distraction behind him at last, Ryan began properly familiarizing himself with the neighborhood around the inn. First order of business: get himself a weapon. Then find an opportunity to test his theory.
Compared to Mourne, Avignon — where the big lug had only spent a few months over a year ago — was far hazier in Ryan's inherited memory. He couldn't even recall the name of the transitional district sandwiched between the docks, the factories, and the slums near the inn. He only knew that heading north would eventually bring you into the lower-middle-class residential areas where public safety was somewhat better.
Apart from the location of the Extraordinaire gathering, he was a complete stranger to this city. After roughly fifteen minutes of wandering and eavesdropping, he finally caught the name of this neighborhood: Cross Street.
"Nice to be in a big city. People still out wandering at this hour."
Having gotten the lay of the land, Ryan made his way to the largest establishment on Cross Street — the Wild Dog tavern. Over a year ago, the big lug had found a certain middleman here and used him to gain access to an assembly attended mostly by Beyonders.
He exchanged a glance with the two heavyset doormen — both about his height, though not nearly as broad — and pushed open the tavern door.
Without the door to muffle it, the noise hit him immediately. To his mild surprise, he found it much less grating than before — nothing like the unbearable din it would have been before the transmigration.
Ryan ignored the smell of sweat and made his way to the bar. A roar of cheers drew his eye to the ring at the center of the tavern, where two dogs were enthusiastically chasing down rats to the delight of the surrounding crowd. This was a well-liked gambling game in the taverns of the Kingdom of Ruen — betting on which dog would catch more rats. It was, incidentally, why the tavern was called the Wild Dog.
He pulled his gaze away and reached the bar.
"South Wiel ale," he said to the barman, a little reluctantly.
He set down a one-sou note and settled onto a stool.
"Big fellow — you've been here before?" The barman took the coin with a trace of surprise.
"Over a year ago now."
After receiving seven pence in change and a large mug of golden ale, Ryan continued — the smell of sweat already feeling somehow less oppressive.
"There's someone here who deals in weapons, if I recall correctly. Does he sell daggers and that sort of thing?"
The barman looked at Ryan — who had already taken a long pull from the mug — and was silent for a moment.
"Left side. Room at the end of the corridor. Ian Doyle."
The name jogged something loose in Ryan's memory. He quickly identified his target, picked up his mug, and walked straight over.
He knocked. A man answered promptly, opening the door and silently fixing him with a stare.
Ryan had no clear memory of Ian Doyle's face, so he simply said, "No need to be on guard. I did business with Ian Doyle over a year ago — not that either of us would likely remember."
"How is that any different from the Ruen winter sun?" came a sardonic, unhurried voice from behind the doorman.
Ryan paid it no mind and said something that seemed both ordinary and oddly misplaced:
"Any chance you'd like to share a South Wiel ale and a game of billiards?"
Then, immediately: "I think we both remember that line."
This was a passphrase — one of the clearest things the big lug's memory had preserved about this city. Its actual meaning was a request to attend the Extraordinaire gathering. Ian Doyle was the middleman connected to whoever ran the assembly.
The doorman half-closed the door, concealing himself behind it. But it didn't take long for him to pull it open again and step out.
Ryan walked straight in and found Ian Doyle — a man of notably fine bearing, with amber eyes.
Handsome enough to look more like a host at a pleasure house than a tavern. Ryan thought privately, without letting it show, and sat down.
The door clicked shut behind him. Ian Doyle — impeccably dressed save for the absent top hat and missing cravat — settled into the chair beside a hanging dark coat.
"My apologies — I only have a vague impression of you, from your build." He paused, thinking back. "The gathering, I'm afraid, is too late in the day now."
"No need to apologize. That's perfectly natural." Ryan's main purpose tonight was different anyway. "Primarily I'm here to buy a dagger or something similar — something easy to carry, solid and reliable. Ideally, something you can give me now."
The Evernight Goddess came out at night, after all.
"Five sous." Ian Doyle named his price directly.
Ryan paid on the spot. Doyle said he'd be a moment and stepped out through a door on the opposite side.
Ryan glanced through the door at the night beyond — nothing remarkable. He took another sip of his South Wiel ale and turned his attention to the billiard balls on the table. They resembled the ones from his memory, but carried no numbers. Without knowing the game better, he couldn't say for certain whether it had any connection to Emperor Roselle.
He didn't have to wait long. Ian Doyle returned shortly with a dagger.
Ryan tested the balance and grip — satisfied — and asked as an afterthought: "For gatherings, is it still the Daily?"
Ian Doyle nodded and added, "If the tavern has a notice about buying rats, there's a gathering."
Ryan nodded, said nothing further, and left the room. He finished the rest of his South Wiel ale in a few swallows, left the mug on the bar, stole one last glance at the ring — he couldn't help it — and walked out of the tavern.
The big idiot really did have a thing for gambling.
He shook his head with a quiet inward laugh, stepped into the night, and disappeared into a corner where no one was watching. Only a murmur too low to carry remained:
"Preparations complete. Time to clean up some garbage."