…pick your moment and go.

Success favours those who take action. Sanity favours those who don’t watch other people get violated. As you want for both, you ready for the perfect moment to run to the stairs and get out of here as quickly as you can.

You draw yourself towards the light, staying on its edge and in the dark as much as you can. The slapping noise chases you, urging your feet forward, making you itch all over, and you look at the group; one last check. The two sitting in their chairs still have their backs to you, while the old man’s eyes drift closed as his head tilts back, lost in the feeling of his own selfish action. You cross into the light of the exits lantern, round the corner of the archway and float up the stone steps with a grace that impresses even yourself. From the unbroken sounds below, you were the only one to witness it.

Your soft soled black pumps make no noise on the wide steps, and when the door at the top rushes to great you, it surrenders easily to your touch, opening into a door lined corridor that splits left and right. You close it gently behind you, gladly snuffing out the sounds of faint moaning below. The corridor is dimly lit, strewn with splashes of light from the lanterns hung at both ends, marking where its length forms corners that trail off into unseen places. They’re distant, ish, leaving the middle fairly dark, and while it’s dark enough to make out the orange line at the bottom of the cellar door, it’s light enough that should anyone walk around those corners you would be exposed with nowhere to hide. Eger to prevent such an occurrence, you move left, picking your direction at random.

When your hurried steps reach the rightward bend and its flickering light, you stop to peek around the corner. It reveals another long corridor, haphazardly lit by similar wall mounted lanterns, but populated by no one. You dart down it, moving quickly and silently, listening for trouble, until eventually, half way down, at a point where the straight corridor grows a branching left pathway into a darker part of the mansion, you hear it. Voices. They shuffle through the air from the distant end of the corridor where a door hangs half open, spilling free the hungry darkness of the room beyond. Though indistinct from here, the voices have the grumble of people at work, accompanied by the occasional bangs or sounds of wood on wood. Why they are working in the dark, you don’t know, but they feel close enough that they could come through the door at any time and quickly send you stepping back the way you came. You consider the dark corridor at your side, but it’s clear that it’s not in use and leads to the far wing of the building, away from the centre. You double back, all the way to the cellar door, and with nothing gained or lost, choose the other path you didn’t take. Right: to fresh opportunities.

This corner reveals another; a short right left kink before continuing onwards, down a corridor equally long as the one that held the cellar, as well as equally empty and equally lined with doors and dim lantern light. Moving down it, you see it also has a corridor that splits off at the middle, leftward, leading into darkness. By your reckoning, that should lead into the middle of the building and on closer inspection you see that it’s lit at the end by several thin lines of light in the rectangular shape of a door. Evidently, the adjoining room is occupied and while the friendly looking darkness is tempting, there is no doubt that your ally would vanish the moment that door was opened. Instead, you continue down the corridor you’re on to the door at its end. As you near, you see it has no handle and no latch, fitted with hinges that swing both ways; a kitchen door meant for fast use by hurried servants. At an arm’s reach away from it, a sudden grunt followed by a loud splashing noise on the other side stops you dead in your tracks.

There’s a rough wooden door to the side, cruder made than the other, and panic sends you through it without hesitation, into a dark room that smells strongly of dirt and root vegetables.

“You know, men aren’t smart.” The feminine voice talks over the sound of pouring water without strain as another womans grunts are followed by a metallic squeak and the further sound of splattering water. The speaker sounds somewhat smug and superior, with a strange quality to her voice; accented with what you think are northern tones. “If you want one, then you have to actually...let him know, you know?”

You listen from your dark and empty room, its door half open, wondering what you should do next. Two ways, both blocked by people who were at least kind enough to talk loudly before you stumbled upon them, but blocked all the same. You could check all the side rooms you passed, but that would be a lot of time and most are likely as empty as the storeroom you’re in now. The two dark corridors are an option. The first is unlikely to lead anywhere interesting, but the second...

“And if he’s taken from you then you have to take him back” the voice continues, sounding each word carefully, as though fighting her natural lilting pronunciation.

There’s another grunt and splash before the second person finally responds with a far more native, far more tired and exasperated Coronac accent. “You know, you could be helpin! Whole downstairs t’ clean an I don’t see you pumpin.”

A wry and somewhat fake tinkling of laugher comes from the other woman. “You know that as soon as my man gets here I plan on my ‘downstairs’ getting its fair share of ‘pumpin’.”

The wooden scrape and slosh of a bucket is followed by an “Ugh. Disgustin.” Before the speakers heavy footsteps begin to move away and her voice gets fainter though the closed swing door. “That’s cuz you’re a hussy!”

You heartily agree with her assessment, but the northern woman simply laughs again, unmoved and unshamed. The gossip of maids can be a useful thing, but from the way the second woman’s laboured footsteps move further away from your door (as well as the occasional splash of spilled water and curses that follow them), this bout is near its end.

The woman with the northern accent hasn’t moved, which is made clear when she playfully calls out to the departing woman; “Better a hussy than a coward!” The response is quite distant to you, but it doesn’t sound like a pleasant one.

You listen close, but no other footsteps are heard; the other woman must still be in the kitchen. Could she be preparing a meal for her mistress? It’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely as she isn’t making any noise at all. She’s probably waiting for ‘her man’. You feel your face flush slightly when you think about it, but you have no intention of being around when the ‘pumpin’ starts. It looks like the door shaped rectangle of light at the end of the last corridor is the new way to go; perhaps you’ll get lucky and it will be empty despite the light. It’s only a short distance back down the one you’re on, but with the woman in the adjacent kitchen room, you’ll have to move as quickly as you can without making a ruckus.

You fully open your door, exchanging the smell of earthy vegetables for old plaster. Fortunately, the corridor here is carpeted, albeit with a threadbare weave, which muffles your feet as you tiptoe your way down into the waiting darkness of the corridors offshoot. The door waits at the end; a thin shape of yellow light.

Voices again. Damn!

Still, there’s something that makes you stop and listen, pressing your ear against the smooth wood. The sound of a woman’s voice.

“...this is Fainus. Fainus, this is Captain Roland.” Captain Roland? Where have you heard that name before?

“Ah Captain, it’s good to finally meet you.” The new voice is that of a man and sounds jovial, presumably this Fainus. The name isn’t familiar.

The womans voice sounds again, continuing her introduction. “Fainus runs several of the best processing and distribution outfits for Wyverns Rest and is here to renew our contract.” Wyverns Rest? So he’s a **** baron, evidently.

The man chuckles. “You’re too kind Captain Wendigo. If you acquire anything like that, processed or unprocessed, I’ll give you a good price.”

You blink, as though struck, your mouth suddenly dry. Captain Wendigo. Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin, terror of the seas -your target- is just beyond this door. She’s evidently introducing whoever ‘Fainus’ is to Captain Roland, who you now remember (or at least are fairly sure) is one of Captain Washkins subordinate captains. But, shouldn’t he be far away from here? At last report he was prowling the cold northern isles of the archipelago. You wrack your brains, trying to visualise the notes you made on all such captains. His was brief, thanks to his absence, but you remember what there was: short, angry, cruel, and blunt with his directness; your usual, vicious pirate. He never served with Captain Washkin and risen through her ranks; he’d taking his own ship and caused his own terror long before the alliance that joined them. That’s good. There’s little trust between such pirates.

Captain Washkin continues after a pause, moving onto someone else. “And this is Mr Bekinsail. He’s here to buy thanks to an oil and flax shipment we took.” Now there’s a name you do recognise. It was thanks to his undercutting of his fellow merchants that they banded together to learn the source of his goods. With a bit guile on your part, his competition were all too happy to give you Captain Washkins location. He’s the reason you’re here, if indirectly.

“You know you killed one of my cousins right?” His monotone response, crackling with age, silences the room.

“Did I?” Captain Roland finally speaks, or you assume he speaks, sounding younger than you thought he should.

“Yeah, set the guy on fire I think.” The silence stretches out, sounding dangerous.

“Is that so...”

Bekinsail’s tone suddenly changes, though somehow it remains as flat as before. “Not to worry. I knew the shitbag well enough to know he deserved it. Prolly saved me some trouble down the line. Let me know if you have any bulk to sell: Furs, food, ores, all that like. Rindosh port south. Ask for Bekinsail.”

The tension fades away and Captain Washkin sounds eager to move on. “Yes, and this man here is Mojarieal.”

A throaty harrumph and snerching sniff come before a simple rasping “Captain.”

You can almost hear the wry smile on Captain Washkins face. “Mojarieal ‘deals in people who deal in people’.”

Captain Roland, sounding genuinely curious, reaches the same conclusion as you do. “Another slaver?”

The sickly sounding man gives his spiel as though eager to get on with it. “If you like. I know almost everyone. If you need to sell anything, buy anything, get paid knife-work or get in contact with anyone,-” He coughs deep enough and hard enough to dredge ships out of the sea, let alone whatever is in the back of his throat. He continues on as though nothing happened. “-you come to me. I’ll help...where I can.” That last comment seems to drip with significance.

Captain Washkin hums knowingly in response. “And finally, this is Mr...Marsh Nokim was it? He’ll be opening up access to North Lilia markets thanks to his position as a dock master.”

Your eyes widen slightly; his would be a very serious crime, committed by one in a high, noble appointed office. It must have cost him a lot to get a dock master job in Lilia, Coronac’s capital. Perhaps too much if he’s willing to betray the post so brazenly. Marsh Nokim. The name is worthless of course, the position unobtainable to a simple ‘Mr’, but you commit it to memory anyway. The position is all you need for your next visit to the capital; there’s only a few dock masters.

“Maybe. If the price is right.” Is his response.

“It will be.” Is Captain Washkin’s. “Now if you’ll all excuse us, Roland and I have a lot to discuss. I hope to get to each of you this evening but it may have to be tomorrow morning if I can’t. You all have access to our wine cellars in the meantime. Gentlemen, speak soon”

A general murmur of assent comes from the group as a pair of footsteps move away, carried up a set of stairs from the sound of it. You distinctly hear Fainus say, almost lecherously, “I look forward to it” before the group start to mutter amongst themselves. There are no female sounding voices among them.

You listen hard as the departing footsteps go past your door, clunking upwards as they continue up a set of stairs. You trace their location in your mind, watching them through the wall until they reach the top. The room beyond your nearby door must be a foyer or hall of some kind, containing the main staircase to the floor above, and it must come out right next to the staircase itself. Another door opens and closes above, almost as soon as they reach the top of the stairs.

So, you know where she is. The only question now is how you’re supposed to get up there?

Opening this door seems folly; you don’t know what’s beyond it, save copious lights and a group of people who would not take kindly to a black clad assassin crossing the room. The far corridor, the one you first tried, had multiple people talking and no sign of any way up besides. The kitchen, your only way forward on this side is now haunted by the maid with the northern accent, waiting for her company. Where to go? What to do? Standing here seems pointless, and risky as well. A small shiver of realisation comes over, remembering that Captain Washkin offered them use of the wine cellar: a place they would likely come through this door to get to. Time to go. You softly back away to the main corridor, looking left and right, wracked with the lack of options.

The dark corridor you encountered on your first path looms in your mind. You could grab a lantern and try to wonder about in the dark, looking for a way upstairs? The people you heard working in the room a little further down come worryingly to mind. Once glance out their slightly open door and you could be seen long before you reach the offshoot halfway down. If it’s a choice between what sounded like multiple men in the dark or a single woman waiting in the kitchen, perhaps it would be best to stay at this end of the mansion. You dislike waiting, almost as much as downplaying the dangerousness of your sex but, given the choice...

You move back up to the kitchen door, hands hovering over its smooth swingable surface as a half formed plan comes together in your mind. Perhaps you could sneak up on her? Quickly tie her up and gag her? Get her to tell you the best way upstairs? It seems..._almost _possible...

“So, you came.” Her voice has a warmth to it, affection coursing through its exotic sounds, and you jump for its closeness, wondering if she has seen you in some way and mistaken you for someone else.

A throaty hum answers, casing away the idea as it forms into a rumbled “Not yet” brimming with masculine depth. It breaks into bubbling chuckles, a laugh that’s met with one of her own: the same genuine soft cadence that chased the other maid away.

So much for catching her alone.

They both sound close enough, but her voice still muffles beyond the door. “And not soon. Come on. If I can still walk straight tomorrow then you will have failed me greatly.” She grunts suddenly, almost yelping, the cause lost to the wide wooden door.

“Bet on it.”

The moment is quite; full of heavy breath breaking from noses and faint smothered moans. You can’t tell what’s going on, and frankly, you really don’t want to. Hopefully, this isn’t the start of the ‘pumpin’ they were talking about. That would be... well for a start, it would be unhygienic in the kitchen and... well, it would put an end to your plan to go through this way. Some part of you would rather barge through the foyer door and march up the stairs directly before interrupting such things. You grin at the notion; maybe you could ask the waiting men for directions while you’re at it?

Whatever spell holds them quite breaks as she grunts again, in time with the sound of a wooden table suddenly shifting across a stone floor. “Ahh! Ooh. Not here. Not here. I’ve got a room set aside.”

Oh thank the Gods! Your reprieve is cut short when you realise their footsteps are coming towards you. A panicked second sends you diving for the dark of the nearby storeroom and its earthen embrace, and you just manage to swing the warped and splinter-filled door to nearly closed as the kitchen door swings open with a forceful push.

They pass, flitting by the narrow crack you left too fast for you to see and leaving the handless door swinging back and forth, falling to stillness with well-constructed speed. Curious, you take the risk of opening the surprisingly creak free old door of your hiding place, peeking around its frame and looking at the backs of the two departing people. The man sports a red bandana and a loose red top just meeting with the faded red and white trousers below, all clearly Captain Washkins colours, while the woman has shoulder length straight black hair and is wearing what is clearly a short, yet traditional, brown maids dress. You wish you hadn’t looked. Her skirt, ending before the knee and the white stocking socks that cover them, is lifted in the middle by the man’s hand to fall like open curtains. The show they reveal is one of tanned thighs, bare cheeks, and digging fingers. How she can even walk like that, let alone saunter so elegantly, you doubt you’ll ever know. You stop looking. One of these days, your curiosity is going to get you killed, or worse.

Soon after they move from view around the little left right corner towards the cellar and beyond, you move to the swing door and quickly peek through. It’s definitely a kitchen; the pump you heard in action stands to your right in the corner, and the evaporating splashes of water leave a trail out the far door. It also sports a large wooden table in the middle and another exit on the far left wall through which you see what could be a little moonlight. From your sojourn through the edge of the woods, you know that to be the back door, and while you can’t see the guard, you doubt he’s moved far from his post. Unless…could he be the man who… but no, why would she be waiting for a man who was standing outside the whole time? Better to treat that exit as though still guarded.

The rest of the room is as one would expect, all cupboards and countertops. While clearly designed to be worked by teams of servants, you doubt it’s been used much over the last few year. Some draws look missing, pan hooks are empty, and it’s all lit by a couple of dim lanterns. The Captain clearly doesn’t plan to hold a feast here, that’s for sure.

It’s also quite empty, save for the unseen presence of the man waiting outside. As you step into the room proper, one element of it catches your eye: a hole in the wall. Not one formed from neglect or damage, but rather the careful square of a service lift; a dumbwaiter with visible ropes and a suspended tray, working on a pulley system. Nobles: to think they would design such an extravagant system into a house, all just to get breakfast in bed.

You cross the room with complete silence to stand before the best way upstairs you’ve seen, but find yourself beset with doubts. The mechanism looks old; not rusted exactly, but still old. The tray is supported in its four corners by ropes that lead into a central thread that disappears upwards. The two ropes hang before the entrance on either side of the tray and run up the shaft as well. It should be possible to pull the ropes from the inside and ride the tray up, if it can support your weight. It would make noise though. You look up the dark shaft and see flickering light at the top, spilling in from the room above. No noise comes from there, yet lanterns are rarely lit for empty rooms, right?

You look about the empty kitchen and its lanterns.

What choice do you have?

The rapidly drying splashes of water that disappear under the nearby door suggest another path. Perhaps the rest of the mansion hides another way up. There must be a servants staircase around somewhere; a proper way for the lesser folk to serve the upper floor without besmirching the main staircase with their traffic. It’s unlikely the master of the house would have breakfast in bed without a team of attendants in easy reach, to cut his eggs and fluff his pillows and such like. Behind that door lies the whole other side of the house and a way up should be nearby, if it exists.

You resist a sigh. Following the damp tracks of the maid while avoiding her, stumbling blindly about for another, possibly non-existent, way upstairs all sounds like a dangerous waste of time. Then again, a possibly noisy or even calamitous climb to a room that may have gods only know how many people in it doesn’t appeal either.

You hop from foot to foot, padding silently with cushioned feet while looking about.