"An Italian?" Boğa mused as he handed Cullen a mug of his special brew before taking the chair next to him. A modest walk had taken them to the Turk's home, tucked away amidst a series of haphazardly arranged but well-built homes not too far from the Bridge. Inside, the man's background was more obvious, with all manner of objects betraying a distinct Ottoman origin. It took a trained eye to realize that the foreignness was but a distraction from the nature of the house itself, leading the eye away from the reinforced walls and strategically arranged heavy furniture. "A man of the arts, no less. When you fall, you fall in unexpected ways, Rutherford."

"I am an actor now," Cullen reminded him, sniffing at the contents of the mug with suspicion. Boğa's Brews had quite a reputation in certain parts of London. "Technically a 'man of the arts'."

Boğa snorted. "You've been an actor since the day you put aside your uniform, just like me. 'Course, our uniforms were different, but that doesn't mean we aren't acting every day - yesterday, today, tomorrow, and every hour of what remains of our days." He heaved a sigh, then took a long pull from his drink. "You and me, we're in the same boat, and we each have a finger in the dyke. Remove it, and we'll drown."

Cullen looked down at his mug with a grimace. "How true those words be," he agreed in a murmur. And they were, despite Boğa's idiomatic manner of speech. "The pressure builds, and all we can do is pray we do not break."

A heavy hand clapped on his shoulder, and Cullen looked up at Boğa's scarred face. "Our fates are at least our own now," the big man rumbled. "Nice change from before."

"Aye, `tis." Cullen contemplated his drink a moment more, then quaffed it in one long gulp.

"Careful there." Boğa laughed when Cullen began to cough, pounding his back until the coughing stopped. "Not everyone can drink like Boğa can." Taking Cullen's empty container, he hefted a jug of brew from the ground to fill it up again. "A street brawl with the retinue of the Duke of Mantua will probably draw some official interest. You two should stay out of sight for a few days. I know where all the rotten fish are buried. I'll take care of you."

Cullen's mouth twisted into a half smile. "You have my thanks," he said with sincerity as he took the newly refreshed mug from the Turk.

Boğa's broad shoulders rose and fell. "`Tis but my turn, lad. Last time `twas yours. We seem to have a bad habit of getting into trouble." Sipping from his cup, he nodded towards Cullen. "Arm good?"

Glancing down at his arm where the blade had slice him, Cullen gave a shrug. "`Twill do. I have been injured far worse than this scratch."

"Methinks I have heard you say such before - mayhap when you collapsed for a week," Boğa pointed out, then grinned when Cullen scowled at him. "Ah, I had promised to make no mention of that again. I seem to have forgot said oath for the nonce."

"Mark you remember in the future," Cullen said with mock severity, nudging the big man with his elbow. His follow-up sally fell unforgotten from his lips as the stairs leading below creaked. Quickly he set his drink on the floor and stood, eyes upon the entrance to Boğa's bolthole, well-concealed by a trapdoor which, when closed, appeared to be but another section of the floor. When it wasn't Dorian who appeared, he frowned. "How fares he?"

Krem glanced over his shoulder down the stairs and shrugged. "Took care of the blood rose on his cheek and another stab he didn't bother to tell anyone about. Silent fellow, for all that he's Italian, too."

"Stab?" Cullen asked, then made a frustrated sound and pushed past Krem to head down to the hidden room, ignoring the final exchange between Boğa and his friend.

"Lad's fallen hard."

"That he has, Chief."