The Clockwork Melody

By The Lucy Nation

The world, characters and locations of Thief (c) Looking Glass Studios (RIP) and Eidos. George Mifune (c) the Lucy Nation.

Chapter 2: The Proposition.

The Last Goodbye was a small tavern filled to the brim with romantic clientele – definitely not my usual haunt. The only reason I'd even heard of the place was Big Molly's fault. She sometimes bussed tables in her 'gentlemen friend's' tavern, the Crippled Burrick, and liked to talk whether you were interested or not. She would prattle on about the Goodbye's famous poet circles, woman adventurers and foreign visitors. More than likely it was just the meeting place for drunken artistic types that told tall tales. Either way I wasn't welcome.

 It was located a few streets away from the modest market down in Dayport, and a good walk for my stinging ankle to bear. The injury had grown worse in the 16 hours since the intrusion on my solitude. My mood was a great deal poorer. I liked walking into situations having the upper hand – like playing with a full deck of cards rigged in your favor. This little excursion left me limping into a game without rules and a 22 card deck. It annoyed me, pure and simple. Everything from humoring a complete taffer (who, justifiably said, I owed nothing to – let alone my illusive company) to having to lower my standards. Then there was the costume.

From what I knew of The Last Goodbye, I figured walking in there flashing my mechanical eye would be folly – these folks tended to seek out eye contact. Likewise with the heavy cloak and hood up. They were actors and dimwitted poetics; they looked upon the dangerously mysterious types as targets for mirth. The day any real 'adventurous' men waltzed onto those grounds they'd be thrown back out into the street. I guess my one-or-two trips to the docks inspired my eventual compromise – an eye patch. As a boy I'd thought myself a pirate.

The crude thing was fashioned from a pocket on one of my unlucky cloaks, strung together with a length of vine and tied behind my right ear. Coupled with an old set of robes (they'd grown too small and hugged around the chest) it was just shabby enough to evoke some sympathy with the stage-folk. At least I'd hoped it did. I don't like being seen, pirate costume or otherwise. For what it's worth, the weather through my walk matched this concern of mine.

It was both rainy and foggy, which didn't surprise me at all. If I'd had a mind clear of anger I might have felt unease at how the great swirling masses of grey seemed alive and in a stalking mood. It kept me blanketed and hidden by will alone. I smiled an evil little grin at a servant girl who hurried to beat the Trickster home, her fingers tearing frightened holes in the wilted lettuce she gripped. She took one look at my hulking, limping, grinning, one-eyed figure and let out a terrified moan before dashing off into the darkness. She was the only soul I'd bumped into till Dayport.

And then, there I was. Standing across the street from The Last Goodbye, Tavern and Inn. The entrance was guarded by two stone pillars wrapped in thin bronze vines, flanked by large glowing windows. It looked warm inside, so swallowing whatever nagging protests my mind still held, I pushed the door open and waltzed inside.

The smell of the place hit me first, followed by the wall of heat from three separate fireplaces. The stench was spice and ale, equal parts, as if they'd melted together over a coal pit. The furnishings were somewhere between eccentric and breathtaking (Another Burrick head, I'd noticed). Tapestries hung from every wall except the bar, which housed an impressive array of bright liquids. The overall theme was of red, silver and green, with only the occasional ale stain. The 30 or so customers prancing about were just as I'd expected. They also matched the scenery.

I took my jagged walk to the bar, well aware that over a dozen eyes had locked on to me for my lengthy pause at the door. I paid no attention to them and, taking my seat at the mahogany bench, ordered a stiff drink from the equally stiff bartender. No exaggeration there – the man looked like the dead walking. And I would know. He was in direct contrast to every other living thing in the room with his shriveled back eye-sockets and drab clothing. He had long, silvery hair that he kept swept back from his face to float eerily down his back. A high collar masked a thin neck. He didn't like me, I could tell, so I paid the geezer and took my drink to an open stall near a dimming fire.

The mysterious G M Esqr hadn't approached me yet and I was almost thankful. Despite a certain malice in the room drifting towards me, the atmosphere was actually somewhat pleasant. My drink was laden with an unknown spice and it wiped the edge off my nerves, so when looking through the room I found myself more curious than suspicious. It was a feeling that didn't come around often.

The Last Goodbye was dark with sporadic bursts of orange brightness, the perfect tavern atmosphere that served both in setting the mood and inspiring drunkenness. At first glance the patrons seemed to be variations of the one theme. Deviants. To my amusement I wasn't the only one present wearing an eye-patch either, as a whole group of aspiring pirates to my left raised their tankards in respect. I shot them a fake and toothy grin that turned them back to chatter again. Towards my right a mock swordfight was being carried on between a gruff man I recognized and a woman I didn't. She had long, red-gold hair tightly braided back against her skull to lie limp against her back, and wore a rogue's clothing with oversized boots of dull green. The man (whom I recognized as the archer from Lord Bafford's who liked the bear pits) was trying to teach her the finer points of sword fighting while inebriated. There was a good crowd lined up around them watching their antics.

I'd just finished my spiced drink when the object of my manifestation appeared from behind the jutting edge of the fireplace to my left. He was wearing the black cloak he'd promised and yes… brown boots. The figure looked nervous and flew towards the bar – as he passed my alcove I swung an arm out and stopped him in his tracks.

'G M Esquire?' It was little more than a growl, the alcohol's fault. Ah hell… I meant it to sound mean.

'Maybe…' That same warbling voice as the intruder.

'Well if it is the G M Esquire beneath that hood than he should take a seat and be done with it.'

'So you're… Garrett?'

'Maybe…' I had to hold up my end of this incredible flow of wit.

'Well then, maybe George M and maybe Garrett are good enough grounds for a conversation!' And he sat down promptly, spreading his elbows across the table and leaning forward, chin in hands. Such a boyish gesture had caught me off guard, so I automatically leant back against my seat. 'Is something wrong?' He asked innocently.

I lifted up a heavy gloved hand and pointed a long bony finger towards his elbows. 'Do you mind?'

'Oh, of course, sorry!' And he dragged the heavy hood off his head, revealing a young and panic-stricken pale face. Big, bulging blue eyes poked out from under a mess of dirty blonde hair. He radiated a spoilt-nobleman's-son charm, despite his early-thirties-ish appearance. And he went right back to his elbow placement. 'You know, I'd thought you'd be wearing a cloak too, otherwise I would have said an eye-patch for myself. Being an ex-Keeper and all…'

'Can we cut the small talk and get on with the business at hand? This isn't a social call.'

'Right, well… Here's the thing. I entered your quite nice little house – not that little is a bad thing. Or that it's a house… because it is a wonderful apartment. Big apartment. I entered it because I need to get back into the good books of Emily, my wife and Vera my, uh, special friend. You see they're both terribly fascinated by you mysterious types and not so interested in Dashingly Good-Looking Nobles such as myself anymore. It's the danger thing, you know women.'

'No, not really.'

'Oh begging your pardon, but come off it! A legend like you? You must have enough jewelry swinging round the old place to impress even the Lady Velarius herself! Gosh, I'd always though you went into thievery for just that very reason…' I lifted a hand up to my eye patch and loosened its strings. 'I mean, I did didn't I? Bloody brave of me too, nearly getting killed and all…' I let the flimsy material slip from my face and fall to the table.

'G M' fell silent, his mouth gaping open as he stared at my eye. Subconsciously he shut his left goldfish eye into a squint and wrinkled his nose. I growled, in my most civil tone, for him to get on with it.

'I'm sorry, Garrett… it's just that meeting you is… a rare privilege. A rare privilege under somewhat unsettling circumstances. My wife was kidnapped three days ago and there's been no news from the villains responsible. The music box was hers…' he let out a little sob and withdrew the polished trinket from within his robes. 'And you stole it from her some time ago. Emily was heartbroken.'

'I stole it from the Opera House, Velarius' room. It was under lock and key in a wall safe.' I was glad my guest had settled down into a normal rhythm, but it didn't rest my uneasiness over where the conversation was heading.

'Yes, that evil witch stole it from her while my poor pumpkin was up on stage.'

'So really I stole it from Velarius.'

He paused and muttered something under his breath.

'Who are you and WHY am I here…? Am I to be paid or what?'

'Oh of course… I'm Squire Mifune of Mifune & Marlocke Imports – you can call me George, Mr. Garrett. As for why you're here – it's a little complicated.' He started to look around the room in hasty sweeps. 'I know I promised to pay you off, and I'm still sorry about the vase, but I can't give you anything right this minute… other than a proposition.' He looked like he'd swallowed a fire arrow with that last sentence. The cords in his neck were knotting up and sticking out, his mouth pressed into a thin pale line and his eyes looked watery and pained. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to ask…

'You want me to get your wife back, don't you.'

George nodded grimly. 'I'll cover all our expenses, including a trip to some rather nice imports that fell off the barge. And when you get my Emily back I'll make you a very, very rich man.'

'How rich?'

'40% of this years profits from Imports… that's 80% of my shares. I'll be on bread and milk for months.' He was serious.

'You really love her that much?' I inquired, somewhat jaded.

'Oh yes, Emily is the sand on all my beaches.'

The profit appeared worth it – how much trouble could finding a wife be? It wasn't exactly my forte, but then anyone who can steal from an angry God surely has potential to expand their repertoire without compromising their standards. I couldn't live up my past exploits all the time. I needed a break from honest thievery, anyway. With opportunities low and my stash lower, this seemed perfect – and all I had to do was hang around in taverns listening for gossip.

'Give me 2000 up front and we have a deal, George.'

He fished around in his robes, making a comical expression in the process, and threw a bulky purple bag of gold onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud that shook the rickety wooden surface.

'I though you might ask for some upfront, so I came prepared.' He was pleased with himself and leant back in his chair.

'And what if I'd come here to rob you?' It was a genuine question, albeit mean.

George looked away towards the fire, thinking it over with a sulky look on his face. I swiped my payment off the table and tied it to my belt with thick cord. It now became an annoying weight against my hip – a welcome nuisance.

'I'll contact you through your imports with a delivery marked 'Quintus', should the need arise.' I fixed my eye-patch up again and readied myself to leave. George looked lost, as if he'd missed the point of my words.

'You're not leaving so soon, are you?' He asked, a touch hurt.

'Yes.' And I stood up.

'But when do we start? Where do we meet?' He asked and stood up himself.

'What…?

'But of course – you didn't think you'd have to do all this alone, did you? George Mifune is not a gentleman to be rude to his employees!'

'There is no way I'm letting you tag along.' I snarled and moved to leave, but George flung out a thin hand and snagged my arm. He turned me around and poked me in the chest with another obnoxious lean digit. I then had to restrain myself from hitting the pretentious brat.

'Now you listen here, Mr. Garrett! This is my wife we're talking about, AND my muh-money! You might be the greatest thief this city's ever seen, but I've stolen from you! By crikey, I even broke your buh-bloody vase! Now you can call me what ever you like, and treat me like the complete taffer I am – but I'm jolly well coming with you or you'll have no money and no job! Is that okay with you, Mr. Garrett?!' He looked mad – crazy mad. 'Well IS IT?'

I took a while to answer him, making sure to shoot a one-eyed glare to induce death in his direction. 'George.' I growled and grabbed his feeble wrist, squeezing it hard till he yelped and released his fingers. 'Don't ever do that again.' I turned my back to him and let a grumble rattle in my throat.

'Wait…'  He nearly cried it out.

I shook my head and glared at the fire. 'I don't suffer fools easily…' Insert a long, dramatic pause. 'but I expect you at my front door come dusk tomorrow. Alone.'

'Oh, Thank –'

I cut him off by lurching out.