Setting Up in Town

You tell the driver to take you into town first so that you can 'make camp' in a room you've paid for. Angling to stay in a nice manor on the countryside is all well and good, but it just does not sit well with you to set up at a location where any number of people will have the keys to your potential 'headquarters.' In your experience, a paid room at a nice enough hotel may as well be Fort Knox to any snoop that lacks a particular kind of devious criminal intent. With that thought in mind you ask the driver.

“Know any classy hotels?” His eyes shift to acknowledge you in the rear-view mirror. It is not the first time. The driver is of a sort that has no particular control over where his eyes land at any given time. You caught him more than once with them on your ass or chest as he was meeting you and helping you into the cab. They are looking at you now and light up at the mention of a hotel.

“Yes! Of course.” He says excitedly in an accented tone. The people here still have a language other than English, but years of conquest from centuries prior enforced the dominance of English on the continent.

“I take you to the best hotel in the city.” He claims confidently.

“Are you being honest, Pedro? The best?” You are understandably skeptical. You get a distinct whiff of incentive with how enthusiastic he is.

“I need security, discretion, privacy and... Comfort.” The last one is not important to the job, but it would be nice, you think.

“The most secure, the most discrete and extremely private.”

“You left out comfort.”

He shrugs and tilts his head back and forth. “It is... how do you say it across the pond... Rustic.” You catch an endearing smile in the mirror.

The unusual admission seals the deal. “But security, discretion and privacy are all there?” You do not think that he would lie about those minor details while leaving out the biggest draw for your average tourist.

“So long as I don't get bed bugs I'm sold.”

“I HATE bugs.” Pedro spits.

“So does my ma ma. No bugs whatsoever, I swear.”

“Good.” You leave it at that and allow Pedro to take you to the destination.

Rustic was a good description. From the outside, the three story building does not look like much. It is an old design with ugly, salmon-colored brickwork and weather-worn wooden window shutters on the outside. A few of the rooms near the center have a balcony just big enough for one person to stand on. Notably you see part of the brickwork has been recently mended where there is a large patch of newer, unpainted stone. You are not certain, but it looks as if a bomb was dropped on it based on your experience in the war. You did not think any missions would be flown this far behind allied lines.

“Well? What do you think?” Pedro asks, helping you out of the cab.

You ignore his hand and help yourself out. “Not much to judge from out here. Let's go inside, yeah?” To Pedro's credit his hands are very smart to not wander the same places his eyes do. The large man with a full beard and olive skin tone is very savvy, at least by your perception. It struck you before and it strikes you now as he is walking ahead just how large he is. You wonder if he served on the ground during the war at all.

“Of course, of course.” Pedro pulls your suitcase out of the back seat and carries it in ahead of you. You make a note to keep an eye on it, though you do not feel any ill intent from the man.

“Ma MA!” Pedro shouts into the lobby as he enters. What follows are a string of syllables that are so tightly packed that they all may as well be one word. An old woman slowly emerges from a room behind the front desk and stares at Pedro with the grim mask of someone has, or is about to commit a ****. When she spots you trailing behind, however, her expression shifts. Her hands come together in front of her and her posture lowers just slightly.

“Welcome!”

You nod and approach the desk. The lobby is well-maintained. Though the tile floor is cracked, it is a marvel that even the space between the cracks is cleaned of dirt and grime. There is no dust on the desk and the smell of the place is neither that of must, nor cleaning solution. It is simply fresh, faintly of the sea but not as much as the outside air.

“How long will you be staying?” The old woman asks in impeccable English. It is not her first language, you can tell. She speaks in the way only someone who has learned a second language would, where her words are chosen very specifically and her sentences assembled meticulously in a way that even most native speakers would not, or could not manage.

“What I'd like is a room with a balcony on the third floor. I'll be staying for..” You think.

“An indeterminate amount of time.” You pull the neatly folded letter out of your pocket and turn it over.

“Charge everything to this account.”

The woman's eyes sparkle as she hears your requests and sees the blank check laid out on the desk in front of her. In the moment you feel like a queen walking among the common people, as the old, presumably owner, seems to have had her day made. Thinking about it, you muse that you did essentially just say that you want to funnel money into her accounts for an amount of time that is not clear. She starts copying down information.

“Will you be needing meal service?”

“Who's the cook?” You eye Pedro suspiciously. The woman practically glows as she leans back and motions proudly to her self with a light chuckle. You nod.

“I don't know if I'll be around consistently. If I come in for a coffee and a couple eggs at odd hours will that be alright?”

“For you, dear, yes.” The woman announces.

“Simply ring the bell for service.” To demonstrate, the woman rings the bell at the front desk.

Leaning on the desk, you ask. “What's this place called? I don't see any signs up.”

“Famille Bellville.” She says in a manner that makes the name sound majestic.

“Are you Madame Bellville?”

“I am.” Madame Bellville says proudly.

“Your pronunciation is quite good.” She compliments in a way that sounds more or less genuine.

“Parents are from the continent. I picked up a few words but they never really spoke the language.”

Madame Bellville nods encouragingly. When you stop talking, and do not seem intent on continuing that portion of the conversation she asks.

“What name should I add to the guestbook to represent your stay with us?”

“Garde. Sion Garde.”

“Garde?” She gulps. You glance to your right and see Pedro look quickly away, then down. He traces a crack in the tile with his boot.

“That is a... Family name?”

“Yes.” The situation reminds you of something that happened during the war. When you were first being introduced to Fran.

*

The Barracks where you first met Fran was just behind the front line. As a part of the mage corps your dwellings were just a bit nicer than the rank and file. Male and female quarters were separate, so you were bunking with a bunch of girls and the state of the barracks reflected that just slightly in the accommodations that were granted. The advantage of the sexism of the era was in the comfort afforded to your group of women, simply by virtue of an assumed vulnerability and delicacy. The disadvantage was the things that those beds were sometimes used for when male officers decided to stray into the female barracks.

“You should keep that name to yourself.” Fran spoke very frankly and did not add any airs. She was practically nobility, which is why it was so odd for her to be down in the barracks with a simple soldier like you.

“Why? Is it attached to something bad?”

“Bad... Luck.” Fran explained vaguely.

“Why is it bad luck.” You were inquisitive and curious, even back then. It was fairly obvious to be indignant over something you could not control, like your name, so it would be good to at least know why the name is bad luck.

“Honestly, I am not sure. For us it is like throwing salt over your shoulder or not stepping on a crack. We wouldn't know why. We just know that it is. Or, we think it is... What I wonder about is what type of madman would keep that name and take it across the ocean? I never thought there would be a family named Garde.”

“Well there is.” You uttered without attempting to hide your annoyance.

“I am.”

“Just do me a favor and keep that between the two of us, alright? Sion?”

“Sion?”

“-Sion?”

You blink. “Sorry?” Clearing your throat you add.

“Lost in thought for a moment, there. What'd you say?”

“Do you mind if we mark you down as just Ms. Sion?”

“Yeah yeah.” You wave your hand dismissively. Even years later it still annoys you, but you let it go. Madame happily marks down your name in her ledger as just that. You see the room key placed neatly on top of your paper and pull it back, folding the key into your pocket while keeping the key in your hand. The tag reads 303. As you stand there for a few awkward seconds the woman stares daggers at Pedro.

“Let me bring you up to your room, Ms. Sion.”

You eye your suitcase clutched tightly in his meaty hands. “I could see myself up if you just give me that.”

“No no. I insist! Please. I need to explain the accommodations, as well before I head back out looking for fare.”

The room is as it was promised. That is to say, not much comfort. According to Pedro there are two showers and two bathrooms, separated out for men and for women. The room itself is nice and clean, but it is small and the bed may as well just be a stone slab for how solid it is. With all that being quickly observed by you, the things that would slip past the perception of an average person immediately strike you. The door is triple locked. A deadbolt, a lock on the knob and a chain. Security. The shutters block out a majority of light when fully shut and the room itself sits at a height that places you over the surrounding buildings, meaning that you wont be looked in on as easily, even if they were open. Discretion. As to the last promise, you aren't positive that another person exists in this old hotel other than the Madame or Pedro. You did not see or hear evidence of any other patrons. It is not touristy, but it is definitely not a trap. It is a location that you can work with.

Thankfully, what the room lacks in comfort it more than makes up for in utility. There is a desk placed tightly against the wall, opposite the bed, that you place your suitcase down on top of. Opening it, you stare at your various tools and reagents. This is a room where you feel comfortable leaving your things unattended. It is quiet and although it is tight, you do not need an abundance of physical space to give you enough room to think. If anything, the small room is reminiscent of your office back home in just how comfortably uncomfortable it is.

From here you can immediately take to the streets and start asking questions in line with the things Fran described, or you can try and catch Pedro before he leaves so that he can run you up to the estate quickly before it gets dark.

* * *

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