Trapped

Three-fifteen by my pocket watch-not the best time for visiting rum-holes, especially in Dover-on-Sea. All decent establishments were closed up tight as a tom-tom: nobody awake except for whichever stablehand was stuck with the midnight shift, watching for horse thieves. Surprisingly, all such stablehands seemed to be avid readers of penny-dreadfuls, the kind where no self-respecting hostler will speak until given a handful of silver. I had plenty of cash for such shakedowns… but with Impervia watching, there was no point reaching for my coins. She didn't believe in paying for information when others should supply it "out of the goodness of their hearts"; she did, however, believe in the threat of violence, using fists or the Caryatid's candleflame. Her violence led precisely nowhere, since none of the stablehands we browbeat had seen anything of relevance.

This left us to investigate establishments which were not decent: hole-in-the-wall taverns and fleabag inns. Places frequented by folks in murky professions where 3:15 is a regular working hour. Such people do not take kindly to questions; and Impervia was incapable of being diplomatic.

Ergo, she barged into a dive called The Buxom Bull and glowered at the patrons therein. She did not speak; perhaps she was watching which patrons guiltily averted their gaze. As for the assemblage of hard-bitten men and hard-biting women, they showed no surprise to see a nun enter the premises. Either they were too jaded to care, or else Buxom Bull patrons were used to "ladies" whose jobs occasionally required them to dress in nun's habit.

The inn's clientele were not so blasé about persons dressed in sorcerer's red. Since the Caryatid wore a plain black overcoat, her crimson body-sheath was not immediately visible; but the tavern was hot and stuffy, filled with people who spent their days in hard physical labor on boats reeking of fish, so the Caryatid shucked off her coat as soon as she came through the door.

That caught everyone's attention.

Most of the tavern was dark-business would suffer if customers could actually see what they were drinking. However, there were three bright oil lamps near the door to let management give the once-over to whoever entered… in case any newcomers were waving pistols, swords, or badges. Therefore, everyone in the taproom could see the Caryatid's outfit as soon as she revealed it; and within seconds, every drink-slurred conversation faded to a strained silence.

Impervia gave an offended sniff that the onlookers could possibly be more impressed by a chubby little sorceress than a lean mean Magdalene. She recovered quickly and spoke to the crowd in her usual piercing tones. "Ladies and gentlemen… using the terms loosely…"

I gave her a warning nudge. "Be nice. We want answers, not bloodshed."

She glared at me, then returned to addressing the room. "We're teachers from Feliss Academy. One of our students has run off tonight-"

"She's upstairs blowing my brother!" a male voice shouted from the back corner. The crowd laughed.

"Very amusing," Impervia said. "However, the student we're looking for is a sixteen-year-old boy…"

"He's upstairs blowing my other brother!"

More laughter.

"How nice for your brothers," Impervia said. "It must be a pleasant change from paying you to do it."

"Oh yeah?" In the back corner, the man who'd been yelling witticisms jumped to his feet: a surprisingly handsome fellow of Chinese extraction, black hair, slight but sturdy. He wasn't especially imposing at first glance… but I'd seen enough fights to know that looks can be deceiving. Big burly types can sometimes crumple after a single punch, while slimmer middleweights can turn out to be as tough as terriers. The Caryatid, standing close by my shoulder, knew the same thing; in a low voice, she told Impervia, "Be careful."

"Don't worry," Impervia said. "I have a plan."

"What kind of plan?"

"I'll make a show of strength. To loosen the tongue of any patron who has useful information."

"Provided it doesn't loosen your teeth instead."

Impervia gave the Caryatid a withering look. Then she turned back to the man… who was attempting to barge through the crowd in an angry rush, but had trouble weaving between the tightly packed tables. Though he wanted to appear livid with outrage, I could see he was trying not to jostle people as he pushed past them. That boded well for Impervia. She wasn't facing a hot-tempered brawler; it was only a man who was acting hot-tempered, as if he wanted to impress the assembled spectators.

When the man finally reached Impervia, he stopped in front of her and opened his mouth to say something. I don't know what the words would have been. A threat? A demand for an apology? The truth will remain a mystery… because Impervia grabbed him by the lapels, swung him off his feet, and slammed him down on a nearby table top.

"Good evening," the good sister said. "My name is Impervia. What's yours?"